


Essays in Demonic Politics

by The_Lady_Meg



Series: Demonic Politics Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-01-23 22:46:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1582163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lady_Meg/pseuds/The_Lady_Meg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of 9.19 (Alex Annie Alexis Ann), Sam is asked to reconsider his status in the universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Imported from tumblr (http://all-the-worlds-a-game.tumblr.com/post/84954964351/essays-in-demonic-politics). This will probably end up being around 5 chapters. Ish.

He’s tired. That’s really the only word for it. The blood loss and the couple of days he spent running around chasing vampires might explain most of it, but he’s mentally drained too. Tired of Dean and his constant recriminations – and for what? Setting boundaries? – tired of Cas and his oh-so-ever-present concern for Dean and Dean’s well-being and Dean’s poor hurt feelings because Sam dared to call him out on his crap, just… tired. 

Especially tired of being a supernatural punching bag as well, come to that. He really should be used to it by now, but seriously, bleeding him out for food? It didn’t even have the advantage of being novel anymore. Dean’s kill-anything-that-moves attitude is hardly new either, although he used to at least pretend to see shades of grey. Sam really wishes he could tell himself there had been a noticeable difference since Dean took on the Mark, but he’s developed an aversion to things inside his head lying to him. Even if they’re him.

Admittedly, going to the nearest bar to wind down probably isn’t the best idea, and he really should be doing research, but if he sits with Dean and his guilt issues any longer, he’s either going to kill his brother or himself. He worries for a minute that he’s turning into Dean, before deciding that he’s probably not going to live long enough to complete the transformation.

He sits at the bar nursing a glass of whiskey for all of ten minutes before the seat next to him is occupied. The guy’s pretty young, maybe twenty-five, brown hair, brown eyes, medium height, relatively non-descript. And naturally, he smells of sulphur. 

“Any chance I can at least finish my drink before you and your four – no, five – friends drag me off to wherever?” Sam turns on his bar stool so as to be able to keep the rest of them in sight. They’re sat at a table in a corner of the almost empty bar, two women and three men. None of them older than thirty-five, the youngest a boy of maybe eighteen. He looks like Luis, one of Sam’s Stanford friends he hasn’t seen since the night Dean broke into his apartment.

The demon sitting next to him smiles slightly. “How’d you know?”

“You stink. And now that I’m paying attention the others stand out like sore thumbs. Some abilities didn’t survive Lucifer. Some did.”

“Trying to scare me, Winchester?”

“Flirting with me, demon? And no, I can’t kill you just by thinking about it anymore. The demon radar’s intact, though.” Amongst other things, but random demons accosting him in bars really don’t need to know any more than necessary.

“Impressive.” The demon smiles again. There’s none of the usual condescension in it. He seems genuinely pleased, although that could just be relief that Sam can’t snap his fingers and end his existence.

“If you say so. What do you want?”

“To talk. I need ten minutes of your time.”

Sam snorts. “The last time I heard something like that, I ended up letting Lucifer out of his cage. You’ll have to forgive my scepticism.”

“Funny you should mention that.”

Sam glances at him again. The others haven’t moved, but are fairly obviously listening to their conversation. The demon next to him is looking at him intently, obviously trying to decide something, then nods.

“Abaddon’s an excellent general but she has no particular turn for leadership. Crowley’s a salesman. Hell needs a King or we’re royally fucked, and not in the fun way. The angels are starting to turn their eyes downwards, thinking maybe Heaven might re-open if they “cleanse the earth” or some such crap.”

He thinks it through for a few seconds. “My two least favourite brands of monster are going to try and obliterate each other? What a shame.”

“If you were ok with the kind of damage that would cause, you wouldn’t have jumped into the Cage with Lucifer riding shotgun.” 

“Point. So, what, you want me to let him out again?” He doesn’t think it’s that, but determining the demon’s position on the failed Apocalypse is probably not a bad place to start.

“Michael’s down there too, right? They both get out, the apocalypse will restart and unless you decide to let him take possession of his vessel again, we’re still fucked. I was as loyal as any of us, but even I know Lucifer needs his true vessel to beat Michael. So no, Lucifer can be of no more use to us. Hell needs a King, and some of us are starting to think the original plan might be the best.”

“The original – No.” That was over, damn it. He wasn’t Azazel’s precious little boy king any more.

Animation touches the eyes of the demon for a split second. He looks almost human. “You were the destined vessel for the God of all demons, and the choice of the last decent ruler of Hell to succeed him and lead Hell’s armies. You’re Lucifer’s chosen one and Azazel’s son in any way that counts. Even Lilith would have sucked it up and bowed to you. Abaddon will do the same, and Crowley’s not exactly King material. Offer him a cushy crossroads position and he’d be kissing your boots along with everyone else.”

“No.” There’s an obvious escape route, the other end of the bar to the demons, and he thinks he can make it if he runs, but there’s no guarantee there aren’t more outside. 

“You don’t think it might be worth it? No more demon infighting, no more human casualties because of Abaddon and Crowley’s pissing contest, no more angels trying to possess you?”

“How the fuck do you know that?” 

“Grace is pretty distinctive, even when the feathered moron in question is trying to hide it. You didn’t exactly hide out while he was in you.” So they’d already seen him somewhere. Following him maybe? There’s a reassuring thought.

“My answer’s still no.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why? Why not do it? Your brother’s in a fair way to becoming one of us anyway, so it’s not like you’d lose him. The Mark of Cain’s not known for encouraging the human side of its bearers. You’re pretty obviously fucking miserable here, and it’s well known that you need a cause to fight for.”

“Go follow someone else. I won’t do it.” Oh God what if it’s true though. Dean becoming a Knight of Hell is one of the worse outcomes of this mess they’re in.

“Let’s be clear. I’m not offering you my veins here; I don’t want to die for a cause. I want a King in charge that knows what he’s fucking doing. I want demons to go back to being demons, not the piss-poor excuses for evil that they pass for these days. If I had the power to do this I’d be somewhere else already, but I don’t so here we are. I’m not interested in having you on board as a reluctant wannabe that’ll be killed within a month, but I do want to know why not?”

Credit where credit was due, the demon was very convincing. “I already turned this job down. Multiple times. Also, being the King of Hell isn’t exactly on my to-do-list.”

“And being Lucifer’s favourite toy was?”

“I didn’t have a choice in that.”

“Of course you did. You could have carried on saying no and he and Michael would have split the world in two trying to get you and your brother to agree and you might even have survived it. But instead you chose to jump into the Cage with two pissed-off archangels with supposedly no hope of getting out. So why do all that, and not reap the benefits of having been fucked over your entire life?” 

He’s not considering this. He isn’t. But there’s no denying the demon makes a lot of sense. Then again, so did Ruby. He tilts his head slightly and lets an amused smirk play across his face. 

“So you think I should declare myself King of Hell in order to regain control over my life?”

“I think my companions and I should declare you King of Hell, tell you the remainder of what you need to know to run the place, and watch Abaddon fall over herself to declare allegiance to the last possible choice for a traditional King of Hell.” 

“Traditional?”

“Azazel knew what he was doing. Lilith was never more than a pawn, but she at least had the ability to follow a plan. You stick around long enough, it starts to become clear that the closer a ruler of Hell was to Lucifer, the better they were at the job. You have somewhat of an advantage there.”

Sam turned fully to face the demon. If the others were going to make a move they’d have made it, and this one is more dangerous than he wants to appear. “Your name.”

“Why? Are you considering it?” The smile again. “You’d be good at it, Sam.”

“You’re very well informed. I assume the choice of a younger vessel is to make me think you’re one of the younger demons as well?”

“That was more for your brother’s benefit, if he was here. In any case, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I doubt it, but very few people talk of Lucifer as a peer. You’re one of those that Fell with him. The vessel was meant to throw me off, but you had to know I’d figure it out.”

“I didn’t know anything for sure.” The smile is back, wider this time, and Sam knows what this is now.

“A test, then. You wanted to know how much Lucifer taught me.” 

An assessing glance is directed at him. “He tortured you for centuries.”

“Of course he did. That doesn’t mean I didn’t learn anything.” Sam feels slightly more in control of this conversation now. The demon knows a lot, but obviously not everything, which means he probably is just an observer. Or has been so far, anyway.

“Not many would see the Cage as a lesson.” 

“Lucifer certainly never did.” The demon who looks like Luis laughs at that, meeting Sam’s eyes across the room. The one next to him stares at Sam for a few seconds, obviously trying to decide how to react. Eventually he nods.

“True. He never did have the ability to adapt himself to a situation. Always used to try to bend the universe to suit him.” The demon seems almost wistful. “That’s why we all followed him, you know. The prospect of a universe made for us was too tempting to refuse.” He shakes himself, returning to the present. “My name was Asmodeus, when such things mattered.”

“Your companions?”

“Balaam.” Luis-demon waves. “Mephistopheles, Sammael, Astaroth and Belphegor.” The others nod as their names are said.

“Lucifer’s personal guard. I’d be honoured if I wasn’t so very suspicious. And you can’t find anyone among such an illustrious company willing to take on the title of King? You Fell with Lucifer. If anyone should want the throne of Hell, it’s one of you.”

“You Fell too.”

“It’s different.” Sam signals the bartender for another whiskey. Asmodeus orders a Bloody Mary. Sam tries not to laugh.

“Not as much as you might think. You still haven’t told me why you won’t do it.”

“Because it’s wrong. Because my brother would never forgive me. Because I have to believe I am more than the sum of my screw-ups. And you haven’t told me why you want me to do it instead of one of you.”

“Because we know our strengths. Abaddon’s is war and destruction, mine is seduction and temptation, Sammael’s is death, Belphegor’s is temptation and sloth… We are many, and we are powerful, but none of us has the capacity to be King of Hell. We were to be Lucifer’s generals during his war with Michael, but after you stopped that we had to rethink most of our plans.”

“So I’m your backup plan?”

“You were our original plan, Samuel. You were meant to unleash Lucifer so we could win the war we put on hold for so long. But, failing that, you are also our last best chance at a King of Hell who won’t ruin us.”

“And Ruby? She was part of your grand plan?”

“Of course. She accomplished her task, although I could have wished she hadn’t broken you quite so thoroughly. You might have been more malleable to Lucifer if she hadn’t. As it is…” Asmodeus swirled his drink as he considered, staring at the floor without seeming to see it. “She took everything from you, didn’t she? And then all there was left was Dean, so of course what else were you going to cling to when Lucifer finally took you.” 

The icy fingertips on his back are his imagination, but he still can’t quite suppress his shiver. “For someone who wants me to help them, you’re not doing yourself any favours here.”

“Would you prefer me to lie to you? You’ve been lied to enough, and I have no interest in a puppet King. If I’d come in here and told you I have always been rooting for you, you’d have known I was lying and that would have been an end to this entire scheme. You’re more intelligent than most of your species. Lucifer doesn’t tolerate fools.” His words are clipped now, as if sensing that Sam’s losing patience. “You have the ability to end the demonic civil war and re-establish the order of the universe. I was an angel once, and I bloody loathed it, but demons are not meant to have dominion over the Earth any more than angels are meant to walk it. Our longed-for battle has become a farce, and you are quite possibly the only one who can end it. We are prepared to assist you in any way you desire, but you cannot ignore this.”

Sam turns back to the bar and slides his tumbler back across the wood. “I’m not interested. And your ten minutes is up.” He stands and considers Asmodeus for a second. “Am I going to have to fight my way out?” 

The demon looks almost affronted. “Certainly not. I told you we only wanted to talk.”

Sam smiles mirthlessly. “Then explain to me why there are another twenty demons outside.”


	2. Chapter 2

The bartender’s head snaps back as black smoke enters his mouth. The other civilians in the bar (three of them, an older couple at one of the tables and a forty-something man at the other end of the bar) are being possessed as well. Demons start walking into the bar. Sam’s hand finds Ruby’s knife in his jacket, but it’s not going to do any good. He counts twenty-one total, and there’s one of him and six older demons of dubious loyalty. Oddly enough, though, none of them seem inclined to make a move on Sam. Asmodeus appears unsure of the situation, but not worried. The other five come to stand in between Sam and the demons nearest to him. Guarding him? Or boxing him in? None of the recently arrived demons seem familiar (there’s never anything obvious about it, he just… knows, sometimes, if he’s met a demon before), so he may as well ask. What are they going to do, kill him multiple times? (He ignores Lucifer’s voice in the back of his head reminding him of the last time that happened.)

“Abaddon or Crowley?” He directs the question at the bartender. Not that it really matters, but if it’s Crowley he at least has some hope of being able to talk his way out of this. Then again, Crowley would undoubtedly enjoy the opportunity to use Sam as a bargaining chip against Dean. There’s really no way this ends well for him.

“Winchester.” Shit. Well he’s dead then. Probably painfully. He turns back to the door to survey Abaddon. Gorgeous as ever, obviously, and the impracticality of high heeled black leather boots that match her jacket doesn’t seem to trouble her. “Interesting company for a hunter.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Not by choice.”

“No, I imagine not.” She visibly dismisses him as unimportant (and Sam is surprised by how much that annoys him), and turns to Asmodeus. “You know why I’m here.”

“I assume you’re going to demand our allegiance.” He seems almost bored. An adult indulging a petulant child, like Castiel used to be with Sam and Dean.

“You can’t possibly be considering supporting Crowley. Hell needs a ruler.”

“In that we are agreed. However, as atrocious a King as Crowley is, you would be no better.”

Oh great. Demonic showdown time and Sam’s in the middle of it. No escape routes anymore. Would Castiel be able to rescue him if he prayed to him? Or would that just get Cas killed as well?

Abaddon, however, doesn’t seem overly offended by the insult. “I could hardly be worse. And what other option is there? We have no time and there is a war to run.”

“As chance would have it, I was attempting to persuade our last true King to take the throne when you and your… insects… arrived.” Asmodeus’ lip curls as he regards the assembled demons. “Hardly impressive. Dispose of your soldiers. I don’t propose to discuss the future of our race with them in attendance.”

“Our last true King?” She glances incredulously at Sam. “ _Him_?”

He doesn’t want the job; she’s free to think what she likes about his abilities. It would be nice, however, for at least one demon to recognise that he and his brother are fucking dangerous without wanting something from them in return.

“Certainly him.” Asmodeus smirks at Abaddon. “I believe I told you to dispose of your soldiers. Don’t make it necessary for me to ask again.”

There’s a ten second pause that has Sam trying not to cringe into the nearest corner. Powerful as Asmodeus and his friends undoubtedly are, he doesn’t like their chances (or, more specifically, his own chances) if Abaddon decides they’re not any use to her alive.

“Very well.” She turns to the demon standing next to her. “Leave. Take the Winchester with you.”

“Again I shall contradict you, my dear. Sam stays here.”

Now she looks angry. “I don’t give a damn who or what you think he is. He attempted to close the Gates. He could still do so with little difficulty. And he set my vessel on fire. I will dispose of him as I wish.”

Some of the demons standing near Sam start moving towards him. Balaam stands in front of a couple of them, who stop immediately. Interesting. These older demons clearly have some form of notoriety. He’s not entirely sure he wants the details. The other Fallen angels don’t seem as keen to involve themselves. There are still three demons advancing on Sam, and he has his back to the bar. One of them makes a grab for him. Sam ducks under the arm and slices the knife across the demon’s neck, then swings his arm back to plunge the knife into the chest of the demon to his left. The other one gets in a hit to his jaw, knocking Sam further back towards the bar, and then decides to roundhouse kick the blade out of his hand. Freaking show-off. The demon snarls and walks towards Sam, and he doesn’t think. He knows better, he does, especially around demons. But it’s instinct. Millennia of torture (training, his mind whispers) in the Cage are hard to forget, and self-preservation is still a strong instinct, no matter his personal desires.

He touches his fingers to the forehead of the demon and Speaks.

The demon crumples to the ground. There’s no flash of dying demon, no black smoke returning to Hell. It just… falls. Sam watches the steady rise and fall of the chest of the teenage girl it was possessing for a moment. She won’t even remember the demon when she wakes up. It won’t ever have existed for her. To all intents and purposes, it will never have existed at all.

He looks back up when he notices the complete silence in the bar. The various demons seem to have forgotten to breathe (not that they need to, but Lucifer always said it was easier to let human bodies regulate themselves than try and take over every single detail). Asmodeus looks stunned. Possibly an act, of course, but given the general shock prevailing in the room, maybe not. Balaam has turned around, obviously not considering the other demons a threat anymore, and is grinning at him. Abaddon, quickly recovering from the shock that still holds the rest of them frozen, has a gleam in her eye that Sam would qualify as fanatical if he didn’t know better.

“Leave.” Abaddon addresses her lieutenant. Her soldiers exit the room quietly. None of them look at Sam. The remaining seven demons in the room have recovered slightly, but still seem wary. Almost scared of him. He tells himself it’s not a good feeling. He’s lying. He hasn’t felt like this in years. Not since Ruby. Which should stop him short, he knows, but it’s been so long since he’s been allowed to even entertain the thought of being competent, let alone powerful. So he lets himself enjoy it for a second. He won’t become King of Hell. But just for a moment, he feels like Sam Winchester again.

“That tongue has not been spoken since we were cast out.” Sammael states quietly. “No angel can Speak it while inhabiting a vessel. No demon has ever known it. You should not be able to use it.”

Sam considers his options for a second. He can deny all knowledge of what he just did (tempting, but not likely to work). He can lie and say the Men of Letters had papers instructing him on the use of the Speech (plausible, but very unlikely). Or he can tell the truth, although the older demons in the room seem to suspect already where he learnt it. Asmodeus will certainly have connected the dots.

“What language do you think Lucifer and Michael spoke in the Cage?” Cue a collective intake of breath. Demons do love their dramatics. "Their ability to bend reality to their wishes wasn't destroyed by throwing them in a box."

“And you can Speak it?”

He won’t roll his eyes. No, actually, yes he will. “Evidently.”

Balaam looks a few moments away from dancing on the table. Sam raises an eyebrow at him and isn’t disappointed.

“Fucking brilliant! Can you imagine Crowley’s face when you literally talk him to death?”

Sam grins despite himself. “Oh the irony…”

Mephistolpheles chuckles slightly. She’s the older of the two women the demons have possessed, and looks very much like Sam imagines his mother would have, if she’d lived. It’s probably on purpose.

Asmodeus hums slightly. “As fascinating as this is, and I do not deny that it most certainly is, we have other matters to consider.”

“No. We don’t.”

Well that isn’t ominous at all.

Abaddon starts towards him, still with that odd look on her face. Balaam moves to intercept her before Asmodeus gestures him out of the way. Sam can’t kill her, he doesn’t think. She’s impervious to anything other than the First Blade, somehow he doubts cheap tricks picked up from archangels on another plane of existence are going to have the same effect on her as on regular demons.

She stops two feet in front of him and Sam restrains the impulse to try and step back. If she wants to kill him then he’s dead. Nothing he can do now.

Abaddon drops to one knee and looks up at him.

“My King.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sam has to suppress hysterical laughter for a good minute, because really? This cannot possibly be happening. Dean has decided that Abaddon is the source of all evil in the world and must be killed, so naturally she decides to pledge allegiance to him. Of course she does.

He controls himself fairly quickly; although he’s sure Balaam noticed the edge of hysteria on his face. Odd to think of a demon as sympathetic, but that’s definitely the only way to interpret the expression on his face now. Sympathetic and a touch of amusement, maybe, it’s difficult to tell. And he might be projecting Luis’ expressions onto the human Balaam’s possessing. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s over-humanised a demon.

Abaddon is still kneeling in front of him, but is starting to look confused. Time to deal with this then.

“I’m not your King.” Sam tries to make his voice as steady as he can, but it’s difficult given the situation. He’s trying not to talk himself into it, as well. He could control Hell, instead of having demons kill everyone he cared about. He could do some good. And the irony of the situation doesn’t escape him: the best way he can see of doing good in the world is to assume control of Hell. Plus he’s been itching to stab Crowley in the face since before he jumped in the Cage.

So there would definitely be silver linings to becoming the King of Hell.

“You are.” Sammael seems sure of this now, more so than before, as she (maybe twenty, with short curly black hair) looks at him. “You are the only possible choice.”

Sam sighs (it’s almost a huff, but not quite). “No, I’m not. And I don’t want to be. You’ve had time to make your case.” He nods at Asmodeus, whose eyebrows appear to be trying to merge in the centre of his forehead. “I have listened to you, and I have made my decision. I am not your King.”

Abaddon stands, her cheeks flushing slightly. Sam registers this almost absently: he wasn’t aware demons could blush. Maybe a side effect of the care she took in choosing her vessel?

“You refuse to lead us?” She sounds indignant. Almost as though her voice can’t contain her outrage that he could refuse such an honour.

“I understand your reticence, Sam, but I think you should reconsider.” Asmodeus smiles slightly at him. Trying to look paternal, maybe. He obviously didn’t know about Sam’s issues with the original.

“I don’t want it.” Sam’s losing patience now. “I didn’t want it the first time around and I don’t want it now. Follow Abaddon or support Crowley, I don’t care. But not me.”

He turns to leave. He’s almost at the door (not that he’s counting the steps or anything, but there’s a room full of demons and that alone is enough to make him nervous) when Mephistopheles speaks.

“And what do you think will happen if we do that?” She smiles gently at him. They all really need to stop trying to be parental with him. “A demonic war would not in any way benefit humanity. The angelic one is causing enough damage on its’ own. But it must come to that, if you refuse to lead us. Crowley must be overthrown, and –“

“Why? That’s the one thing I don’t understand. Why is Crowley so much worse than any other choice? I mean, I personally would cheerfully carve him to pieces, but I assume you have other reasons.”

“He’s trying to impose order onto Hell.” Astaroth’s voice is high and grating. It doesn’t suit his vessel in the least, a tall (but not as tall as Sam) man of about thirty. “Hell is chaos by nature. To impose order onto it is both impossible and undesirable. If Hell turns into a long line of people doing nothing but wait, where is the balance? Where is the threat to those who would do evil? Where is the balance to eternal paradise if there is no eternal torment?”

“So you’re trying to restore balance to the universe? Nice try.”

“Hell is weak. If we are not feared, we are nothing. Heaven and Hell are based on belief, and fear is a powerful enforcer.”

And yeah, ok. Fair point. But he still doesn’t want it.

“You must do this.” Belphegor this time, a slow ponderous voice. “You are the only one left, my King.”

“I’m a hunter!” Ok so maybe he’s going to lose his temper a bit. But he’s completely had enough of being told he must do things. “I hunt things like you! I am not your King, I am not your saviour, and for the last fucking time, I do not want it.”

Sam turns to leave again.

“Why?” The door swings shut in his face, and Asmodeus walks towards him. “Why do you not want this? You would be immortal. You could have anything you wanted. You would control all the demons under your command. Keep them in Hell, make new rules about possession, whatever you feel to be necessary. You are our _King_. And you can control us completely, if your mastery of the Speech is sufficient. We cannot lie to you if you do not allow us to. We cannot go against your will. What are you afraid of?”

That my brother will hate me. That he’ll think I’ve finally become the monster Dad said I would be. That this is an elaborate trap and I’ll set Lucifer free again. That you’ll find a way to betray me.

That I’m damned no matter what I do, and whatever decisions I make.

But saying that means admitting weakness. Not such a good idea in front of demons. Sam draws himself up to his full height. “You murdered my mother. You murdered my girlfriend. You murdered my father and my brother and tortured them both for decades. Your creator tortured me for millennia. I don’t owe you jack.”

“Azazel was responsible –“

“No. He didn’t run Hell without support, and you’ve already told me you approved his plan. Don’t insult my intelligence.”

“So you’ll support Crowley?” Mephistopheles sounds incredulous. “He’s killed your allies as well, and he was hardly innocent in the matter of Azazel’s plan.”

“I’m not supporting anybody.”

Abaddon seems calmer than he would have expected her to remain. “Your brother is. He’s taken on the Mark of Cain, hasn’t he? Crowley wants to kill me, so he enlists a Winchester to do his dirty work.”

“And you’re stealing souls from people who are still alive in order to bulk up your army. I don’t care which of you wins. I just want my brother to live through it.”

“Is that what’s bothering you? I can stop, immediately, if you wish?”

“What, just because I asked?”

“No, because you ordered it to be so.”

So that’s the ultimatum then. He can either refuse again, and Abaddon carries on ripping people’s souls out, or he can agree to become everything he’s ever hated, and the world becomes a better place. He feels the same way he did in the Cage when Lucifer decided to pull every organ out of his body. Hollow and also decidedly nauseous (he was more than nauseous at the time, but apparently the memories have dulled slightly).

He can do it, he knows that. When he was soulless he’d tried the Speech on a few demons he’d come across (varying the types of demon, of course. Soulless him was apparently very thorough) and none of them had been able to disobey him. He can sense enough about the demons in the room to know that he could control them, too. He won’t need the blood to do it, either.

Not to mention that there’s a few matters he could finally attend to with the help of the entities in the room.

“My half-brother Adam is still in the Cage. Do you know of any way to get him out without releasing the archangels?”

If Asmodeus looked any more smug he’d break his facial muscles.

“He’s human, yes? Humans aren’t meant to be contained in the Cage, we should be able to extract him.” Sammael smiles at him.

Sam nods and mentally reviews his other priorities. “Can the Mark of Cain be removed?” The words are imbued with enough power to make it impossible for the demons to lie to him.

“No.” Asmodeus is gazing at him intently, the smile gone. The negotiating round then. Sam hasn’t agreed to anything yet, and they need him to. “But the King of Hell, whoever he may be, has some control over it, hence why Crowley can direct some of your brother’s more demonic attributes.”

“The King of Hell could palliate the damage, then?” And this is the deal breaker, right here.

For the first time, Asmodeus wavers. “Potentially. Cain never asked for the Mark to be removed or changed. That doesn’t mean it is impossible. The Speech may grant you some power over it as well.”

Ok. He can do this. He can. The scary part is, it’s not even going to be difficult.

He draws on his remaining reserves of power. Leftovers from Lucifer and Gadreel and Meg and Crowley. But these orders are the ones that have to stick. The Speech should work without it, but he cannot afford for Dean to pay for another of his mistakes.

“Dean is completely off limits. I don’t care if you have to stand there while he carves you to pieces. You do not harm my brother. You remove Adam from the Cage, no matter the cost to you. Should his rescue require anything that I would disapprove of, you bring it to me first.” Oh God he sounds like Him. But this needs to be done.

Sam takes a deep breath, and steps over the line he drew in his head at the age of 23, when Azazel told him what he had planned for him.

“Kneel.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sam drives back to the bunker in silence. The radio is off. He left all the demons at the bar, where they were discussing headquarters or something equally ridiculous. He’s still working through the situation in his head, and he needs to talk to Dean. Even knowing how that conversation will undoubtedly go, he needs to talk to Dean.

Dean’s going to be angry. No, scratch that, Dean is going to be _furious_. At him. Again. Because Sam breaks everything he touches, and this situation has so many ways it can go wrong. But for once he’s not doing it for Dean, which he thinks might make it one of his better plans. Not that he regrets any of the things he’s done for Dean, but they tend to be done out of fear of losing him, or grief, or despair, or some other emotion that clouds his judgement and makes him stupid. This isn’t. This is him trying to back the best possible horse in a race where he can’t even see the finish line, which is hardly something new for them. They’re all about making the long shot to try and get the best possible outcome.

But Sam’s not usually the horse they’re backing, and that’s what is going to make Dean sceptical. Dean hasn’t believed in him for years. Also, he made the decision without Dean, and Dean hates not being involved in decisions. Even if they’re primarily Sam’s. Even if they’re only Sam’s.

The car draws up to the bunker without Sam noticing immediately. He pulls himself together before unlocking the door. He can’t be on autopilot for this conversation.

He pushes open the door with more than usual trepidation, and walks down the stairs.

Dean’s sitting in the library, with a tumbler of whiskey next to him, staring at the table. At least it’s not a bottle. Sam picks up a tumbler from the sideboard, sits down opposite Dean and pours himself a few fingers of whiskey. Dean still hasn’t looked up at him.

“Dean.”

He looks up finally. It’s like looking at a stranger. “What, Sam?”

“I need to talk to you about something.”

Dean snorts, pushes himself out of his chair, and paces in circles for a few minutes. “What now? You’ve already told me we’re not brothers anymore, and that you don’t care if I live or die. What more could you possibly have to say to me.”

Sam steels himself, and hopes his brother hasn’t had too much to drink. This is not a conversation he wants to have with Dean sober, let alone with Dean drunk.

“I was in a bar earlier and a demon came in to talk to me.”

Predictably, Dean explodes.

“What the _hell_ , Sam! Why didn’t you call me? What did the fucker want?”

“To ask me to become King of Hell instead of Crowley or Abaddon, in order to prevent an imbalance in the order of the universe, basically.”

“ _WHAT_?!”

He probably should have built up to that a bit more.

“WHAT THE HELL? AND YOU LISTENED TO HIM? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

“He had friends and I didn’t like my chances if I started swinging. I couldn’t exactly do anything other than listen to him.”

“What, so you just sat there and listened to him detail his plan to have you take over the universe?”

“Just Hell.” This would probably be funny if he wasn’t slightly concerned Dean might kill him. He’s rubbing his forearm, where the Mark is under his shirt. “And then Abaddon turned up and tried to have her demons take me off somewhere.” Dean’s going bright red with suppressed anger. “And then they found out I could Speak, so she decided to pledge her loyalty to me as well.”

“They found out you could speak? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Speak, Dean. It’s how the angels refer to the language used before Enochian was… created, I guess.”

“And how do you know that?” Well at least he’s still speaking to Sam. That’s better than expected.

“Lucifer and Michael used it in the Cage to warp reality to suit them. They couldn’t get out, but that didn’t mean they were powerless.”

“And this language… It’s powerful?”

“Yes.”

“So why the fuck haven’t you used it before?”

“I didn’t want to remember Lucifer. And I thought you’d be… angry. I didn’t have much choice tonight, it was either that or Abaddon was going to have me flayed or something. She looked creative.”

“What did you do?” Dean’s face has taken on an accusatory glare now.

“I used it to remove a demon from existence.”

“You killed it?”

“No, I removed it from existence. It never existed. Anyone possessed or hurt by it is now where they would be without the demon’s interference in their life.”

Dean paces up and down the room a few more times. Sam sips his scotch and tries not to notice Dean’s right arm shaking.

Dean stops in front of him again. “You’re back on demon blood aren’t you?”

“No.” The accusation doesn’t even hurt. He’d have assumed the same, given the information Dean has. Dean nods and runs his hand over his face, looking down.

“So a bunch of demons want you to become king of all black-eyed douchebags, Abaddon has decided to follow you, and Crowley is now going to see you as a rival. Great. Just what we needed. I need more whiskey.”

Sam watches him pour another glass, downs the rest of his, and tries not to let his hands shake.

“I said yes, Dean.”

He freezes for a minute, bottle still in his hand, facing the opposite direction. When he speaks, his voice is quiet.

“What?”

Sam stands and moves around the table slightly, towards his brother.

“I said I’d do it. It’s the only way to stop the demon war and keep the world balanced. Or as close as it’ll get, anyway. And we can –“ Sam ducks as the bottle Dean was holding comes flying at his head. It smashes on the wall above him and a piece of glass slices his cheek. Dean has him up against the wall before he can recover from the shock, his arm pressed against Sam’s neck, holding him there and cutting off most of his air supply.

“What the fuck were you thinking? The last time you decided to do something this stupid, you ended the world, Sam! After everything I’ve done for you, everything Dad and Mom and Bobby and Ellen and Jo did for you, you’re going to do exactly what that yellow-eyed bastard wanted you to?”

Sam’s struggling to breathe at this point. Dean hasn’t noticed.

“This is why I can’t trust you! You do fucking stupid shit like this as soon as I turn my back for a freaking second!” Dean pushes off him and lets him slide to the ground. Sam’s gasping for breath, but the light-headedness is receding now. Now he just feels sick.

“Dean –“

“Shut the fuck up.” Dean goes back to the glass of whiskey he poured before. “I thought we were past this, Sam. I honestly did. Turns out I can’t trust you any more than I could when I came back from Hell.”

“That’s not true. I know what I’m doing, Dean. I can control the demons. They can’t betray me, the Speech makes that impossible.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better? That you’re some kind of demon overlord instead of a fucking idiot who got pussy-whipped into starting the Apocalypse?”

The sound of the bunker door opening cuts him off. Sam’s almost grateful for the interruption. He’s listened to his brother list his failings so many times, he’s not sure he can stand another round. Plus the interruption seems to have given Dean’s anger pause. On the other hand, there’s almost no chance of Cas taking his side in this, and there’s no-one else it could be.

“Cas! Get in here and listen to Sammy’s latest brilliant idea!”

Yeah Cas definitely isn’t going to take his side.

“What does your idea involve, Sam?” To be fair to him, Cas obviously hasn’t picked up on the sarcasm in Dean’s voice, and is now genuinely interested in Sam’s “brilliant idea”.

“Well Sammy here wants to become King of Hell, so he can make everything better. And he knows this because a demon told him so.” Ok, outright mockery is new. Sam was kind of expecting the screaming anger to continue for a while.

Cas’s face scrunches up in the vaguely childlike way it does whenever he’s confused.

“Why does a demon want you to become King of Hell? And why are you considering it?”

“Apparently he wants to restore balance to the universe.” Dean has been spending too much time with Cas and Charlie if he’s using finger quotes. “And he can use the Force to make demons do what he wants. Because, you know, demons aren’t any good at weaselling out of deals. Or betraying people.”

Cas looks lost. “The Force?”

Sam sighs. “The Speech, Cas. I learnt it in the Cage from Michael and Lucifer. Abaddon and the rest can’t disobey me if I use it.”

Cas’ eyebrows are now trying to climb into his hairline. “You can Speak? But you’re human, not to mention infected with demon blood. You should not be able to Speak.”

Thanks for that, Cas. Almost forgot for a minute that he was an abomination. “And yet, I very definitely can.”

“I see.” Cas considers Sam for a second. “I understand you are frustrated with the current situation with the demons. And that you think you should have shut the gates of Hell during the Trials. However, I don’t think this is a good idea. The demons are undoubtedly lying to you.”

Oh. Actually, wait. Sam should probably mention that. “They’re not demons. Well, not completely. They’re fallen angels.”

Dean promptly goes red again, and Cas’ head tilts to the side.

“Angels?”

“Lucifer’s old guard, but apparently they don’t want him loose if it means releasing Michael as well.”

“You’re working with _Asmodeus_?”

“You’re bending over for a buddy of Lucifer’s? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Sam stiffens unintentionally at Dean’s words. “Asmodeus is the demon that approached me, yes. And no, technically they’re working for me now.”

“Sam, Asmodeus was Lucifer’s second in command.”

“I know.”

“You know.” Cas looks almost as angry as Dean. “You know, and you still wish to go ahead with this plan?”

“He wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t want Lucifer out. I made sure.”

“That doesn’t make this a good idea. I thought you had left your hubris behind.”

“I’m not doing this out of hubris, Cas. Or out of pride, or anything else. It’s the only way to end the demon war, make sure no demon ever comes near our family again, and might mean we actually all survive this.” Sam glances between Dean and Cas.

“Sam! Just stop already. We are not doing this. Not now, not ever. Got it?” Dean’s barking out orders at him now. Sam wonders if he’s deliberately channelling their father.

“I wasn’t asking for your permission, Dean.” And oh, how he hoped it wouldn’t come to this. “I’m telling you what I’ve decided. I’d like your help, because you’re my brother, and even if I don’t trust you right now, I still want you around. But you don’t own me, and I don’t need you to green-light every plan I have. Yes, I made a horrible mistake with Ruby. But this isn’t like that. I’m not out of my mind with grief, I’m not high off demon blood, and I’m not being lied to because _they are literally incapable of it_. I know what I’m doing.”

Dean nods, seemingly to himself because Sam isn’t stupid enough to think Dean is going to be even remotely ok with this. He runs his hand over his face again.

“Get out.”

No. He can’t mean that. “What?”

“I said get the fuck out. You want to turn yourself into a monster, you ain’t doing it here. Get out.” The m word again. Sam hates the m word.

Cas looks slightly surprised at Dean’s decision. “Dean, I don’t believe that would be –“

“No, Cas. This isn’t up for discussion.” Sam’s brother turns back to him. “Get your stuff and leave, Sam.”

Sam nods, and turns to go to his room. His duffel should be packed. He can take one of the bikes from the garage. Somehow he thinks this’d all be easier if it didn’t feel like he was moving underwater.

He pulls his duffel off the shelf it stays on when they’re not out hunting, and puts the various weapons he keeps around the room into it. His clothes go in on top, and the one photo he still has of Jess on the very top. It was in his wallet when their apartment burned down, and it’s stayed there ever since. He tries not to think about whether she’d hate him for this. He hesitates before picking up the small package in the back of his sock drawer. It goes in a side pocket. Dean won’t ever want it back now.

When he turns to leave, Cas is standing in the doorway.

“Sam, please don’t do this. Dean will allow you to stay if you tell him you won’t become King of Hell.”

Sam stares at him for a minute, not really seeing him, before answering. “Dean’s becoming… something else. You know that as well as I do. I might be able to stop it, or at least mitigate the damage, if I do this. Just… Look after him for me.”

With that, he pushes past Cas and heads towards the garage. Dean is nowhere to be seen. He’s probably found another bottle of whiskey.

Sam climbs onto the nearest bike and spares a moment to be grateful that it works, before steering it out of the garage and into the night.


	5. Chapter 5

He drives for a while before realising that he’s about to have a breakdown, and the middle of an interstate probably isn’t the best place. He pulls off at the next motel, books a room (single) from the guy behind the desk in the front office who’s trying (and failing) to hide the porn he’s watching on the computer in front of him, and walks through the door of room 16 without really registering anything. He salts the door and windows with the same blankness, before sitting down on the bed (which smells slightly of damp, and he really hadn’t missed this about living on the road) and dropping his head into his hands.

He wasn’t expecting Dean to kick him out.

He’d known Dean would be angry, yes. Hell, he’d expected a punch or two. But not getting a bottle thrown at him, being choked while Dean shouted at him, and kicked out of the bunker.

Sam wonders how much of that was the Mark, and how much was just what Dean thinks of him now.

He should leave, he knows. Call Asmodeus, find out where their new super-secret-demon-hideout is. Asmodeus and Abaddon both came off as quite fastidious, so he assumes they’ll have holed up somewhere halfway decent. But he doesn’t want to have to sleep near demons. Not yet, anyway. He’ll probably have to get used to that.

Someone banging on the door pulls him out of his (fairly miserable) introspection. The card must have been declined or something. Sam drags himself to his feet, finds his wallet and opens the door.

He really wasn’t expecting Balaam and Abaddon to be on the other side.

Balaam grins at him. “Hi boss.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Abaddon smiles. “We figured you might want some company. And the others are talking politics. We were bored.”

Sam scrapes his hand down his face and suppresses a groan. What the hell is his life, seriously.

“How’d you find me?”

“Followed the trail of our King, of course.” Balaam frowned. “We’ve been following you for about half an hour, we couldn’t sense you before that. You just appeared on the interstate.”

“So you can sense me now? Great.” Sam considers them for another second or two, then kicks out the salt line and lets them in. “Come in before people start wondering what three people are doing in a single room.”

Abaddon smirks at him. “I must say, I’d have preferred a king at least.”

Sam shuts the door with a little more force than is necessary. By the time he’s turned around, Abaddon is lounging (elegantly, of course) on the only chair in the room, while Balaam has chosen to sprawl on the bed.

“Ok. What are you really doing here?”

“We wanted the pleasure of your company, boss.” Balaam smiles up at him, and Sam is pretty sure he’s going for innocent, but he’s missing it by quite some margin.

“And they really are being very boring.” Abaddon adds.

Sam rolls his eyes and kicks Balaam’s legs out of the way so he can sit down.

“Why, what are they talking about?”

“How best to subvert Crowley’s authority and convince the hordes of Hell that you are our King, amongst other things.” Abaddon purses her lips slightly. “They’re also trying to determine pecking order.”

“Pecking order.” Sam’s voice is flat.

Balaam pokes his hip with his foot. “They all want to be your second in command.” He smiles lazily at Sam, who’s trying not to be too obviously amused by where this is obviously going. All credit to them for figuring out that he wouldn’t take kindly to having decisions made over his head, though.

“They don’t get to decide that.”

Balaam sits up so he’s encroaching slightly on Sam’s personal space. Not enough to be annoying or uncomfortable, but enough to make Sam aware of it. “Of course they don’t. But they think you might not assert your authority in this, and they’ll get to do what they like. Can’t blame them for trying.”

“And why aren’t you two trying?” They are, of course, and they’re much more likely to be successful, but they don’t need to know he’s figured it out yet.

Abaddon smirks at him and swirls a margarita Sam swears she just plucked from mid-air. “I’m the best general you have. I’m not worried about my position in Hell’s hierarchy.”

That’s probably true. She doesn’t seem like she suffers from a lack of self-confidence.

Sam turns back to Balaam to find that the demon has leaned in towards him slightly. “And you?”

The smile Balaam gives him is a carbon copy of the one Sam used to see Dean direct at various waitresses when they were younger, blatant admiration mixed with invitation.

“It’s your decision, boss.” He leans in a bit further. Sam leans into him and tries desperately not to laugh. “Not my place to make choices for you.”

“So you’re not going to try anything?” Sam allows a note of disappointment to creep into his voice. He moves his torso so he’s sharing breath with Balaam, lips about an inch from touching. The demon’s practically vibrating with triumph. Sam almost wants to play poker against him. “Not even a badly thought out seduction ploy?”

Balaam freezes, Abaddon bursts out laughing and Sam pushes the demon away from him. He grins.

“Seriously, that’s the best you’ve got?”

Balaam huffs and flops backwards onto the bed. “Was worth a shot. Chief consort to the King of Hell would’ve been a pretty cushy job. Plus you’re gorgeous, wouldn’t have been a hardship.”

Sam raises an eyebrow at him and he sits up again, looking embarrassed.

“Hey, I wouldn’t be that bad a choice! I was going to follow you anyway, boss, but hey. Demon. ”

Sam turns to Abaddon, who’s still giggling away to herself. “I assume you knew he was going to try that?”

“He’s never been the brightest.” Abaddon sips her margarita. “And if you can’t deal with one soul-digging demon then Hell is going to eat you alive. Besides, that memory’s going to be very popular with the others. Not often one of us gets shot down.”

“So you’re here to further your standing in Hell, and you’re here to point and laugh, basically?”

Balaam grins. “No hard feelings?”

“None of the type you’d be interested in.” Sam returns drily, setting Abaddon off giggling again.

Sam eyes the drink Abaddon’s holding and is about to ask her for one (she’s probably not going to poison him. And if she does it’s hardly the end of the world. Poison’s a fairly easy way to go, as he remembers) when the door flies open with a bang. Abaddon’s between Sam and the door before he’s fully processed the situation, and Cas is advancing into the room.

“Get out.” Abaddon is almost snarling at Cas.

“You will not hurt him.” Cas’ voice has taken on the commanding edge Sam remembers from when he declared himself God.

“Of course we won’t, you flying muppet. He’s our King.” Balaam’s stood next to Sam, glaring at Cas.

“Sam, you are in danger. You must come back with me.” Cas ignores Balaam and stares at Sam.

“What danger?” Sam distances himself from Abaddon and Balaam as much as possible without being obvious: there’s a chance Cas has genuine information. He’s pretty sure they still noticed.

“They’re demons, Sam!” Cas exclaims at him. “They will betray you and your brother, just as Ruby did.”

Ok, so nothing new then. “Dean wants nothing to do with this, Cas. And we’ve been over this already. Unless you have new information, or a better plan, leave.”

Balaam looks at him quickly, then back to Cas. “Wait, Castiel? _The_ Castiel?” He smirks at Cas. It’s an ugly expression. “The faithless angel. Not even we fell that far.”

Cas looks grim. “Balaam. You followed Lucifer into the Pit.”

“True. But at least I still have the ability to believe in something other than a sense of my own superiority. In Sam, for starters.”

“I will not let you take him.”

“Nobody’s taking anybody.” Abaddon snarls.

Balaam grins suddenly, his harsh expression from before fading. “Although I for one would be more than happy for him to take me.”

Sam rolls his eyes. He’s been doing that a lot this evening.

 Abaddon draws herself up slightly, meets Cas’ eyes and says, perfectly evenly: “Sam is here of his own choice. Now leave.”

“Sam, you –“

“Cas, is there anything else I need to know?” Sam tries to be patient. Cas saved Dean, and he’s not always wrong about this kind of thing. Usually is, but not always. Besides, Sam’s track record isn’t much better.

Cas glares at the demons. “No.”

Sam nods. “Then you can come with us and help us take down Crowley, or you can go back to Dean, or you can go back to your army and fight Metatron. I have no interest in making the decision for you.”

Cas turns and leaves.

Sam tells himself it doesn’t hurt (Lucifer would have disagreed).


	6. Chapter 6

Abaddon slams the motel room door and turns back to Sam, looking like thunder.

“ _Angels_.” She hisses. “Self-righteous, stuck-up arseholes with no more ability to fight a war than a human child. If any of them had the sense Lucifer gave the least of our race, the angel war would be over and Metatron would be a smear on the ground. Arrogant bast –“

“I notice Crowley’s still alive.” Sam cuts off her rant. “You should probably have taken care of your own enemies if you want to rage about everyone else’s incompetence.”

“I almost had him! He had practically no support left, a few measly demons propping up his ego and feeding him human blood. And then you and your brother go help Crowley find the First Blade and suddenly all of Hell knows Crowley has the Winchesters after me. Historically, that hasn’t ended too well for those of us on the black-eyed side of life, so I start losing followers, because they assumed that Crowley would win because he was backed by the Winchesters!”

Sam raises an eyebrow at her. “So you’re saying your evil plot failed because my brother and I supported the other team?”

“Your dismantling of the Apocalypse did gain you a certain degree of notoriety.”

Sam smiles slightly and nods. Balaam narrows his eyes at him. “Your brother isn’t backing you for this, is he?”

Sam glances up at the demons, surprised they haven’t guessed it yet. “If he was I wouldn’t be here.”

“So the guy with the Mark of Cain and the First Blade is still on the other side?” Well that’s the first time he’s seen Abaddon look worried. Asmodeus must have filled her in.

“If you are suddenly entertaining doubts, Abaddon, you’re more than welcome to see if Crowley will take you back.” Sam’s speaking before he’s fully realised what he’s saying. It seems to work though. Now she just looks sulky. “So are we staying here indefinitely? I assume you were sent in part to pick me up?”

Balaam grins at him. “Already tried that.”

Sam glares at him. “You’re going to shut up now or I’ll put you in charge of the whiniest set of crossroads demons I can find. And make Crowley your boss.”

Abaddon considers that for a second. “You seem very sure he’ll give in.”

“I wasn’t really planning on leaving him another option. He’s killed too many people I care about and he appears to be doing his level best to enslave my brother. He’s dead.” Sam grins. “Unless Balaam really pisses me off, that is.”

Balaam huffs, puts his hand on Sam’s shoulder and they’re suddenly in what Sam judges to be a mansion, at the very least. He sighs.

“Where are we, why did you bring me here without permission, and why isn’t my bag here as well.” Abaddon flickers out of sight and then is back, holding Sam’s duffel.

“I put your bike in the garage.” She smiles at him.

“To answer your other questions, boss, we’re in Britain. Kent, in fact. Asmodeus likes it here. Personally I think he just likes that the people are as posh as he is. We can relocate if you don’t like it. And I brought you here because… Asmodeus told me to?” His voice lilts up at the end, betraying a certain amount of uncertainty.

Which is a problem. He’s being tested again, and it doesn’t matter if it’s just the three of them here (and he highly doubts that it is) because how he deals with this is going to be reported back to everyone who was in that bar, as well as any other potential supporters.

Balaam disobeyed him. Not explicitly, but he knew exactly what he was doing. Taking orders from Asmodeus instead of Sam.

He has to. It’s a small consolation that Balaam obviously expects it (wants it, even. He _wants_ to know that Sam has the balls to punish the disobedient) but Sam spent so long being the good guy. The empathetic one.

He looks at Balaam, face completely expressionless, envisioning what he wants to happen, and then Speaks.

Balaam’s vessel collapses to the ground as his body starts burning the demon out of him. Balaam screams and Sam doesn’t flinch. It’s only a slight change. Turning the water in his body to holy water. It’s a relatively simple trick, and it doesn’t hurt the host. Balaam could leave the vessel, if Sam wasn’t using what’s left of his demonic powers to keep him there.

Balaam’s screams turn agonised. Sam sees Asmodeus appear in the corner of his eye. He ignores him and keeps watching Balaam.

He Speaks again after a minute has passed. The screaming stops. Balaam sits up slightly, staring at Sam.

“If I require transportation I will inform you of it. Don’t ever do that again.” Sam’s voice is steady. He’s proud of that. He probably shouldn’t be.

Balaam nods, still looking up at him. “Yes, my King.”

Asmodeus takes a step forward. Sam turns to him, while Balaam picks himself off the floor behind him.

“My King. A set of rooms have been prepared for you, if you wish to sleep. Otherwise there are certain matters which require your attention, but if necessary they can wait until morning.”

And oh, how Sam would love to be able to sleep right now. Unfortunately, that really doesn’t seem to be on the cards.

He turns back to Balaam. “Find me some coffee. And something to eat. Try to resist the urge to poison it.” Back to Asmodeus. “What matters?”

Asmodeus gestures him out of the hallway as Balaam disappears. Abaddon turns to go up the stairs, taking Sam’s bag with her.

The room Sam enters was the dining room of the mansion before the demons took it over, he thinks. Probably some well-off family home. He doesn’t really want to know what happened to them.

Sammael, Mephistopheles, Belphegor and Astaroth are already sitting, but stand as he enters the room. Sam takes a seat at the head of the table, and raises an eyebrow at them. They sit back down fairly quickly. Asmodeus, who entered behind him, has followed him to the head of the table and is about to take a seat at Sam’s right hand.

Sam raises the other eyebrow, and Asmodeus keeps walking around the table and sits on Sam’s left. The demon looks slightly displeased, but Sam’s not having any of them proclaim their own importance here. Lucifer nods approvingly from where he’s standing in the corner of the room. He’s always a little more present around demons.

“Well?” Sam allows a faint hint of boredom to enter his voice. Asmodeus sits back in his chair and steeples his fingers.

“The demons that previously formed the top tiers of Abaddon’s army have, without exception, declared for you, as have the demons that followed us. Those in the lower ranks of Abaddon’s army that are proving more recalcitrant are being taught the error of their ways. Crowley controls barely a quarter of Hell, as the situation stands. We… You control just over half, providing all those previously loyal to Abaddon transfer their fealty to you. Most of the remainder are those who have either stayed in the depths of Hell by choice, or who have continued their assigned duties, without reference to who may be ruling Hell.”

“They’ve been allowed to stay out of the in-fighting?”

Asmodeus grimaces. “The nature of their duties makes it unwise to involve them. The crossroads demons have naturally all flocked to Crowley, but the torturers, guards and general administration have stayed out of it. I took the liberty of contacting someone in the administration. She said they’ve been ignoring both Crowley’s and Abaddon’s commands since Abaddon made her claim, and have continued to run Hell according to the last set of orders they received. Those orders came from Crowley, but she made it perfectly clear they would declare for whoever won the war, and didn’t have the time to become involved in the fighting.”

Sam nods. “I take it you think it advisable to leave them be for now.”

“Indeed, my King.”

Abaddon enters the room, and stands at the door. Sam gestures to one of the chairs further down the table and turns back to Asmodeus.

“You said most of the remainder. Who are the rest?”

“Several smaller factions, led by demons of minor importance. As best I can ascertain, they seized the opportunity provided by the war to… jump ship, as the saying is. They now answer to leaders they have chosen, and are proving to be an annoyance. I have informed them of our decision to back you as King, and all bar one of the factions has agreed to a meeting.”

Sam considers this for a moment. “So they want to assess my suitability for the job before committing. How democratic.” He pauses. “Do we need this other faction?”

“No, my King. But we need them not to declare for Crowley. The faction is one of the larger ones and it would make things messier than they need be. I understand your goal, and mine, is to get this done as quickly and neatly as possible.”

“If I may, my King?” Abaddon leans in a little. “It might be best to remove them now, before they can cause us problems.”

“Do we know where they are? The faction that won’t meet with me?” It feels odd to be saying me instead of us, but they’re not fully loyal to him, not yet, and he can’t afford to take chances.

“A house in Cape Town, my King. They’re not attempting to be subtle.” Asmodeus has that slight smile on his face again. Sam worries again that he’s being played. They can’t disobey him or lie to him, but there’s nothing to stop them withholding key information (he hears Ruby in his head, boasting about being the best of those sons of bitches).

He surveys the table and imbues his words with power. “Is there anything else about this that I would want to know?” Not should know. Should is subjective. What he wants to know depends on his intent, and his intent is not to permit them to hide anything from him.

None of them seem to be bursting with the urge to tell him anything, so he releases the pressure he has them under, and looks over at Abaddon.

“Take however many demons you feel to be necessary. Kill any that are part of this faction. I want the leader alive. I assume we have a room that will serve as a prison?” Belphegor nods. “Good.”

Abaddon stands and bows. “It shall be done, my King.”

“I don’t doubt it. If there are children being possessed, exorcize them rather than killing them. Keep a tally.” She nods, and turns to leave. “Asmodeus, set up the meeting with the other factions.”

“It would be wise to keep them separate, my King. If one group should refuse to follow you, it could galvanize the others into doing the same.”

“They won’t. Set up the meeting.”

“Yes, my King.” Asmodeus bows and leaves the room as Balaam enters it, holding a tray with what looks like the entire contents of a bakery and a coffee pot, which he places in front of Sam. He then bows and retreats to the door. Sam eyes him, amused, before motioning him to Asmodeus’ vacated seat and pouring himself a cup of coffee. He picks up one of the croissants on the tray (which, judging by the paper bag it’s in, actually came from France. Balaam must want Sam to like him), leans back in his chair and addresses Sammael.

“How are you intending to get Adam out of the Cage?”

Sammael stands and brings him a sheaf of papers. “This ritual should work, but we would need a drop of blood from a relative of his.”

“Mine will work, presumably?”

“Certainly, my King.”

Sam feels some of the pressure in his chest ease off. He can at least do this. Even if everything else goes to shit, Adam won’t be paying for his actions anymore.

“Will it have any adverse effects?”

Sammael smiles. “Like releasing Lucifer and Michael? No. This is a summoning ritual, for lack of a better term. It will summon Adam out of the Cage, and will not release the archangels, but more than that I cannot guarantee.”

Sam closes his eyes briefly and comes to a decision. “Is there a way you can alter it so he isn’t summoned here? So that he goes straight to Heaven?”

Astaroth chimes in. “No, but there’s a few rogue Reapers still around, who’ll be more than happy to have the King of Hell owe them a favour. I’ll get in touch with one of them.”

“Would that work? I thought Metatron had closed the gates of Heaven?”

“He has, but there’s always a way in. The Reapers are a notoriously tricky lot, they’ll have a way. They won’t have been using it much, don’t want to draw attention to themselves. But they’re a cunning set of bastards and they’ll know how to do it.” Astaroth drums his fingers on the table. “Do you have any preference as to who I approach?”

“No. Find me someone that can ferry Adam upstairs.” He turns back to Sammael. “Set up the ritual. Coordinate with Astaroth so Adam doesn’t have to spend any more time than necessary here.”

Balaam looks confused. “Why? He’s your brother, my King, I thought –“

“He didn’t like me that much the first time around, then I caused him to be tortured by archangels for a couple millennia. Then I got out and he didn’t. He’s going to want to kill me and I don’t blame him.”

He leafs through the papers quickly, then sets them aside to take with him. He doesn’t trust them yet. Any ritual requiring his blood is dangerous to him, so he needs to know what it’s doing. Exactly what it’s doing.

“Is there anything else?”

Mephistopheles shakes her head. “No, my King.”

“Good. Then I need a couple hours sleep. Send someone to tell me when Asmodeus has fixed the meeting. And notify me when you’re ready to go ahead with the ritual. Balaam, with me.” He grabs another croissant and his coffee, puts the papers in his jacket, and leaves the room, Balaam at his heels.

“Your rooms are on the top floor, my King.” Balaam says quietly, obviously trying not to incur Sam’s wrath again.

“Drop the act. We both know you were pushing it, to see what I’d do.” Sam turns to face Balaam. “Weren’t you?”

A grin creeps back onto Balaam’s face.

Sam starts up the stairs. “Why’d you draw the short straw? And how long were you planning on keeping up the kicked puppy act?”

“Asmodeus suggested it, and I volunteered. We were curious, more than anything else. Didn’t know how much guidance you’d need in the beginning. And I’d have kept it up until you told me to stop.”

“So first you wanted to see how I dealt with disobedience, and then you tested my gullibility.”

Balaam considers him for a second, an odd smile playing around his mouth. “And you didn’t fall for either for a second, did you? We underestimated you.”

Sam smirks. “I assume that won’t happen again?” They’re on the top floor now. There’s one door leading to what Sam assumes is his room.

“No, boss.” Balaam grins at him. “So are you actually going to fuck me now? I’m getting real mixed signals.”

Sam sighs. “And you were doing so well. I’m putting you on guard-slash-assistant duty. If anyone comes up about either the ritual or the demon faction in South Africa, wake me. No-one enters except you, and even then, only if there’s an important message. I find you crawling into my bed, I’ll obliterate you. Clear?”

Balaam sketches out a salute. “Yes, boss!”

Sam rolls his eyes at him, picks up his duffel from where Abaddon left it in front of the door, and enters what he thought would be his room.

Turns out, it’s more like an apartment. Of the expensive variety. Penthouse suite, in fact. Sam wanders through the set of rooms in a slight daze. There’s a study, a living room, a kitchen, three bedrooms (including one that appears to have a bed which might actually fit him) and a bathroom you could fit a football team into. Sam walks over to the bay windows in the living room. They’re in the countryside somewhere. There’s no sign of any other houses, but the grounds surrounding the house are being patrolled by demons in pairs.

Sam feels a little stunned when he considers they all answer to him now.

A yawn cuts off that train of thought. He pulls the blanket with the devil’s trap on it out of his bag, and lays it in front of the door to the bedroom, before kicking off his shoes and collapsing onto the bed.

Potentially traitorous and manipulative demons can wait until tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 7

When Sam wakes up, it’s almost dark outside. The clock on the wall informs him it’s just past eight pm. It was seven in the morning when he went to bed. Time zone differences, he thinks.

It takes him a minute to remember why he’s in a different time zone to the usual. When he does, he groans instinctively, and sits up to check that Balaam hasn’t got stuck in the devil’s trap he left by the door. It’s still empty, so either Balaam was expecting Sam to put it there and got around it, or he’s been left alone to sleep for thirteen hours straight.

He rolls out of bed and pads to the bathroom, picking up some clothes on the way. It’s one of the nicer bathrooms he’s ever been in, better than the one at the bunker, which is almost military in its uniformness. Sam showers quickly, absently noting that Dean would like the water pressure here, and cutting off that train of thought before it can remind him of how much he’s lost in the last twenty-four hours.

He redresses and wanders back into the main bedroom, picking up his duffel form the floor where he’d dumped it the night before. He opens the closet to put it inside (he doesn’t like leaving things on the floor, Jess used to yell at him) and is somewhat surprised to find it already full. Of what appear to be tailored suits and shirts that look to be his size. Sam rolls his eyes and closes the door, heading towards the door to the stairs, where he assumes Balaam is still standing guard.

He isn’t disappointed. The demon turns as Sam opens the door and grins at him.

“Was starting to wonder if you were ever going to wake up.” He looks Sam over, and frowns slightly. “Did you not find the clothes we left for you?”

“These are fine.”

Balaam closes his eyes briefly. “No. No they are not. You’re the goddamn King of Hell, boss. You need to look like it.” The demon pushes him back into the room and goes into his bedroom, avoiding the devil’s trap that’s still there, but not commenting on it. He pulls a shirt (a plain white one) and some grey slacks out of the closet, along with some boxers that look like they cost more than most of Sam’s current wardrobe, some socks, and a pair of shoes that could probably buy a small house, and thrusts them into Sam’s hands.

“I’m not saying you need to wear a suit, although in my personal opinion it’s a crying shame a man looking like you do doesn’t wear tailored suits every day of the week, but you can’t walk into meetings with high-up demons and expect them to listen to you if you look like a lumberjack. And a poor alcoholic one at that.”

Sam opens his mouth to refuse the clothes being pushed at him, and then closes it again. He grins. “You’re taking this assistant gig very seriously, aren’t you?”

“Someone has to make sure you look presentable, boss. I’ll wait out here while you change.”

Sam obeys the implicit instruction and goes to change in the bathroom. He’ll admit to himself that he does look better like this. There are cufflinks for the shirt, which he’s amused to see are devil’s traps. Whoever did his clothes shopping obviously has a sense of humour.

He walks back out, spreading his hands. “Do I meet your exactingly high standards now? And are there any messages for me? I thought I told you to wake me.”

“Much better. Although expecting me to keep my hands to myself in the face of such temptation is practically inhumane. Abaddon came back, her mission was a success and the leader of the rebellious faction is in Belphegor’s dungeon in the basement.”

“We have a dungeon?” Sam interrupts him. “I was just expecting a warded room somewhere.”

“Yep. Belphegor’s very thorough. Also, Sammael says the ritual is ready and they’ve found a Reaper willing to help. She’s downstairs, discussing disembowelment methods and their efficiency with Abaddon while they wait for you.” Balaam ticks items off on his fingers. “And I didn’t wake you because you looked like death warmed over when you arrived here. Besides, there’s not really any rush.”

Sam nods, considering everything he’s just been told. “The room we used as a meeting room yesterday, is that empty?”

“It will be when I kick everyone out of it, boss.”

“Good. Do it. I want to see Abaddon first, then Sammael and Astaroth, and then the Reaper. And coffee would be good.”

“Got it. I’ll get you something to eat while I’m at it. While your shoulder to waist ratio is superb, you definitely need to eat more.”

“Quit hitting on me and get to work before I let Abaddon test disembowelment methods on you. And tell Asmodeus I want to see him before anyone else.”

Balaam salutes and vanishes. A moment later there’s a quiet knock on the door.

“Come in!” Sam calls, fiddling with the cuffs on his shirt.

Asmodeus enters the room and bows slightly. “My King.”

“Is the meeting with the other factions set?”

“Yes, my King. They’ll be here the day after tomorrow. I am hopeful that we’ll be able to sway the majority of them.”

“Good.” Sam eyes him for a second, and then starts towards the door. “I assume, when you decided to approach me, that you thought you’d be second-in-command?”

If Asmodeus is surprised by the sudden change of subject, he doesn’t show it, merely turning to walk with Sam down the stairs. “I do not presume, my King. I would be happy to serve as such, but my loyalty does not depend on it.”

Sam smiles wryly. “And what does your loyalty depend on?”

“Your ability to lead us, my King. You will allow me to say that, as of yesterday, I have no more concerns.”

“Yes, your little test with Balaam was entertaining.”

Asmodeus glances at him. “He told you?”

“He didn’t have to. If you thought I was that much of an idiot I’m surprised you approached me in the first place.”

“When I said I didn’t want a puppet King, I wasn’t lying.” Asmodeus pauses. “However, I did think you might need more guidance in the early stages. Better to know now rather than in front of the other factions in two days.”

“A fair point.” Sam pushes open the door to the meeting room. Abaddon’s waiting inside for him, and stands as he enters. Asmodeus follows him and waits for Sam to sit at the head of the table before addressing him again.

“Do you wish me to sit in these meetings, my King?”

“Yes, sit down. Abaddon, leave us for a moment.” She bows and exits the room. Balaam enters before the door has fully closed, and raises a questioning eyebrow at Sam. Sam waves him in and turns back to Asmodeus. Balaam stands behind Sam and slightly to the right, his posture strongly reminiscent of parade rest. His vessel was probably in the army.

“For the time being, you are second-in-command. I want a detailed breakdown of who is currently following me, as soon as you have it, and any information you have on Crowley’s forces. I also want any information you have on the mark of Cain, its effects and any ways to modify or suppress it. The information you have on the factions I’m meeting with the day after tomorrow should be given to Balaam to put on my desk upstairs by this evening. Is there anything else I need to know for now?”

“No, my King.”

Sam turns towards Balaam. “Tell Abaddon to come in.”

Balaam tilts his head slightly (and seriously, do all angels do that? Not that Balaam is one anymore, but he used to be, and the head-tilting is obviously very deeply ingrained) and Abaddon enters the room again. She bows to Sam, and takes the seat she was in yesterday.

“You required my presence, my King?”

“Yes. The faction in South Africa is destroyed?”

“Yes, my King. They hadn’t possessed any children, so we killed them all. Just over fifty demons in total. Their leader, a demon called Castor, is in the dungeon. He’s not too badly hurt.”

“Good.” Sam leans back in his chair slightly. “Consider yourself general of my armies. For now, anyway.” She smiles, obviously pleased at recognition of her talents. If everything goes the way Sam wants it to then she’ll have to step down in favour of someone else, but he doesn’t think that’ll be a problem. He turns back to Asmodeus. “Are any of Alastair’s students among my followers?”

This is the part that leaves him feeling nauseous. But Alastair’s name carried weight, until Sam killed him. As did Lilith’s, for that matter. Ruby’s too, possibly.

Asmodeus nods, looking puzzled. “All of them, my King. Your brother was Alastair’s best student, and Meg was one of his favourites, as well. Both of them have or had a close association with you, and his other students are well aware of that. They also loathe Crowley, which might be a more decisive factor.”

Sam swallows and forces his voice to remain steady. “Find one of the better ones and have them extract any useful information from this Castor. I want him alive by the end of it, and I’d prefer the host took no lasting damage.”

Asmodeus nods again, looking even more puzzled. Abaddon has narrowed her eyes at him, a knowing smirk playing across her lips. Sam’s not surprised; the plan he has in mind is the kind of grandstanding she’d appreciate. He smirks back at her. “Anything else?”

“No, my King. Do you require anything more of me?”

“Not for today. I’ll need you the day after tomorrow for the meeting with the other factions. Find a few of your favoured lieutenants and bring them to me tomorrow, I’ll have instructions.”

“Certainly, my King.” She stands. “Should I send in Sammael and Astaroth?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She turns and leaves the room, and Balaam takes advantage of the pause to direct Sam’s attention to the coffee and food growing cold next to him. Sam rolls his eyes and pulls the coffee towards him.

Sammael walks through the door, Astaroth on her heels. “Good evening, my King.”

“Sit, please. Have you found a Reaper for the ritual? And is it ready?” Sam takes a sip of his coffee. It’s made just how he likes it. He mentally ups the amount of time they must have been following him before their talk in the bar.

Sammael places another sheaf of papers on the table. “Yes, my King. All preparations have been made, in one of the other rooms. We only require a drop of your blood to complete the ritual.”

“The Reaper is waiting outside.” Astaroth takes over. “She wishes to meet you before committing herself, but I don’t doubt she’ll do it. May I bring her in?”

Sam nods and the demon leaves to find the Reaper. Sammael hands him the papers she has with her, and he glances over the Latin in the ritual. There’s nothing there that could harm him, and it appears to be exactly what she told him it was. She can’t lie to him, but Sam can’t help feeling nervous at the prospect of summoning someone from the Cage.

The door opens again while Sam’s still reading. He only looks up when someone says his name in a faintly incredulous tone.

He smiles, because of course this would happen.

“Hi Tessa.”


	8. Chapter 8

Sam gestures to a chair.

“Sit down, please.”

Tessa chooses a chair near the door and sneers at him.

“I could have guessed the Winchesters were behind this. Looking to bend the natural order of the universe again?”

“Looking to restore it, actually. And it’s just me. Astaroth tells me you can ferry my brother to Heaven?”

“Dean’s dead then?” She looks completely unconcerned. Dean’s claim of her having a soft spot for him was obviously bullshit.

“No. My other brother, Adam.”

“The one Dean chose to leave in the Cage in favour of rescuing you?”

Sam debates asking for clarification on that before deciding he really doesn’t want to know.

“Will you do it?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“A favour.” Sam replies coolly, staring back at her.

She considers for a moment and then nods. “Fine. If I don’t do it, someone else will. May as well get something out of it.”

“Good. Sammael, the ritual is ready?”

“Yes, my King. Follow me please.” She turns and walks out of the room. Sam motions for Tessa to follow her. Asmodeus stays where he is at a gesture from Sam, and Balaam follows him out of the room.

Sammael leads them to a smaller living room off the main hall, which smells strongly of herbs and what Sam suspects is holy oil.

“If you would please place a drop of your blood in the bowl, my King, I will commence the ritual.” She picks up an ornate silver bowl from a table in the middle of the room and hands it to him. Balaam hands him a knife, and Sam pricks the end of his thumb over the bowl. No use wasting blood, after all.

Sammael replaces the bowl and starts to incant in Latin. From what Sam remembers of the papers she showed him, it’s not a very long spell, just one that requires some fairly esoteric ingredients.

The incantation finished, Sammael steps back to the edge of the room with Sam, Balaam and Tessa, as the room fills while a bright white light. Sam tamps down on the panic in his gut, reminding himself that the light is just the ritual. Nothing else. Not him.

It carries on building, and Balaam and Sammael both look away. Sam doesn’t. If he’s ended the world again he’s at least going to have the dignity to face it. Tessa doesn’t either, he notices. She also doesn’t look worried. He allows that to comfort him, as he doesn’t doubt that she shares her boss’ disdain for Lucifer.

The light fades suddenly, and there’s what appears to be a ghost in the centre of the room. Adam’s ghost, in fact. Sam smiles in relief. Non-corporeal means that there’s no chance Michael or Lucifer hitched a ride. And ghosts don’t exist without a soul. Adam’s out.

His brother is looking around the room, obviously confused.

Sam turns to Sammael. “Out. Now.” He orders curtly. Time enough to thank her for her help later, he doesn’t particularly want her to see the side of himself he shows his little brother. She needs to be scared of him. He looks at Balaam. “You too.”

They both nod and leave the room. Tessa stays where she is. Sam turns back to Adam, who’s looking at him as if he can’t quite believe he’s there.

“Sam?” Adam starts forward. “I thought… You were gone.”

Sam nods. “Castiel pulled me out of the Cage. Well, most of me. Death got the rest.”

“I remember. Are we… Are we not in the Cage?” He sounds so very young, Sam notices. He forces himself to smile.

“No. I promise you we’re not.” He motions to Tessa, who smiles at Adam. “This is Tessa. She’s a Reaper, and she’s going to take you to Heaven, so you can see your mom. Like they promised you.”

Adam frowns at him. Sam was expecting him to be angrier, but he’s not complaining. “What are you doing? Those were demons. And where’s Dean?”

He was hoping to avoid this. “Dean and I aren’t working together anymore. I’m King of Hell. Some of the older demons approached me and it’s for the best. Dean disagreed.”

“You’re King of Hell?”

“Yes.” Adam’s going to hate him.

“Ok.” Or, you know, maybe not. “Can I help?”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “Adam, I appreciate it, but I’d have thought you’d want to go see your mom. Also, we don’t have a way to get you a body. And I thought you’d hate me.”

Adam’s face scrunches up. So very very young. “Why would I hate you?”

“I pulled you into the Cage. You were stuck down there with angry archangels for a few millennia. And then I got out and you didn’t.”

“Sam, you were saving the world. I get it, believe me.” He smiles wryly. “It’s what I was trying to do, after all. You were just better at it.”

Sam swallows past the lump that’s lodged itself in his throat. Adam continues unaware.

“Besides, Michael wasn’t pissed at me. You protected me at the start, and then he hid me from Lucifer once he was… distracted by you. Even after you got out, he didn’t seem interested in hurting me. The worst bit was watching them hurt you.”

No, fuck it, he is not going to cry.

“Then you got out, and it was just kind of boring. And you got me out now.” Adam smiles up at him.

Sam hiccups, concentrates for a second and pulls his little brother into a hug. Adam stiffens and then relaxes into it, hugging him back.

Sam pulls back after a while, keeping his hands on Adam’s shoulders. It’s a strain to keep him corporeal, but Sam wants the reassurance that he’s there. He won’t be in a minute, but he is now. That has to be enough.

“Go with Tessa. Go find your mom. For me. Please.”

Adam looks like he might argue for a moment, before deflating. He nods.

Sam blinks rapidly. “It’s Heaven, Adam. You’ll be happy. And it’s more than I’m likely to get.” He takes a deep breath. “If you see someone called Jessica Moore, up there, can you… Can you tell her I love her? And I miss her. And I’m sorry.”

Adam nods and hugs him again. He grins at Sam, looking suspiciously teary-eyed himself.

“You know, for someone who didn’t do it for very long, you’re a pretty awesome big brother.” Sam watches his little brother turn to Tessa. “Ok. I’m ready. Take me to your leader.”

Sam laughs, and his last sight of Adam is him disappearing with Tessa, a massive grin on his face.

Sam sits on the nearest chair, puts his face in his hands, and lets himself cry.

Adam’s dead. For good. But he doesn’t hate Sam. But he’s dead, like everyone else Sam cares about and he _can’t_ -

A knock on the door makes him pull himself together. Once he’s fairly sure his voice isn’t going to crack, he stands, digs the heels of his palms into his eyes and opens the door.

Balaam’s on the other side. Sammael’s nowhere to be seen.

“Everything alright, boss?” The demon looks him over. His eyes are probably red from crying. Sam can’t bring himself to care.

“Yes. Did you need something?”

Balaam considers him for a moment. “You haven’t eaten yet. You didn’t touch anything at the meeting before. Come on.” He turns and heads towards the other end of the hall, near the front door. Sam sighs and follows him.

Balaam leads him to the kitchen, where he points towards a chair and makes Sam sit down and tell him what he’d like to eat. He then proceeds to make a Waldorf salad in front of him (Sam only asked for a plain salad. His tastes are plebeian, according to Balaam), while pulling the ingredients out of mid-air. He then bullies Sam into actually eating it, before pulling him back along through the house, to a small library. Sam spares a moment to look over the room. It’s nicer than the bunker, and had obviously been decorated by someone with both money and taste. There’s a good collection of books, as well. And a whiskey tray on a stand in the corner, from which Balaam pours him a glass of Scotch.

Sam eyes him amusedly. He doesn’t feel like crying anymore, which he assumes was the point of this. Taking the place of the soul-crushing (and he knows what that feels like) sadness from before is the realisation that Adam’s gone to Heaven. He’s ok. Sam didn’t fuck it up, his little brother is no longer paying for his mistakes, and is presumably happy and safe.

It’s a weight off his shoulders that’s been there for so long he’d forgotten what it was like to not have it.

Balaam’s retreated to the doorway, and is standing guard next to it.

“I was mostly joking when I told you I was giving you assistant duties, you know.” Sam tells him.

The demon looks affronted. “Do you not want me to?”

Sam smiles at him. “Sit down.” He walks over to the tray, pours another glass of whiskey and hands it to Balaam, before sitting back down. “It’s almost certainly beneath you to be running around after me. So why are you doing it?”

Balaam sips the Scotch, hums and smiles back at him. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m a demon, boss. I used to be an angel, then after we Fell, he changed us all just enough that we weren’t angels anymore. We were his original test subjects, not that we saw it like that at the time. He was our leader and our friend and we’d have done anything for him. Lilith was the first demon, we were the prototype. And then he started making demons, and we were still important, but he was so angry that he wasn’t the angel I chose to Fall for anymore. We used to be his closest friends and council, and then Lilith and Alastair and the Knights came along, and we were shunted out of the way.”

“So you’re choosing to be my secretary instead?” Sam’s pushing, he knows, but he wants to be able to trust someone, just a little.

“Honestly? What I am doing for you now, is what Asmodeus and Azazel did for Lucifer before the Fall. There’s no shame in being close to the King of Hell. I am a demon and you are my King. And quite frankly, you need someone to look after you.”

Sam smiles. He has a point, after all.

They’re interrupted by a knock on the door. Balaam puts his tumbler down on the table next to them, and goes to answer it. Tessa walks in before he’s got the door fully open.

Somehow Sam thinks she wasn’t expecting Balaam to react by grabbing her by the throat and slamming her into the wall.

“Were you not taught any manners?” His tone is almost conversational. “I’m a demon and even I know better than to barge into a room without invitation.”

She glares at him for a moment.

“Don’t do it again. Or I’ll kill you.” He lets her go, and she glares at him some more, before turning to Sam.

“Sorry.” She doesn’t seem very contrite but Sam’ll take what he can get.

“Adam’s in Heaven?”

She nods. “Safe and sound. I left him with his mother.” She looks around the room. Balaam has retreated to his post by the door again. “May I sit?”

Sam mentally bids farewell to the relatively peaceful evening he was having, and nods towards the chair Balaam vacated.

Tessa sits cross-legged in the armchair, and looks at Sam.

“You said you’d owe me a favour. I’m calling it in.”

“Ok. What do you want?”

She clicks her teeth together a few times, then replies. “Metatron’s head on a plate.”

Sam takes a moment to be surprised at her choice of favour, before considering the implications. “You want the Veil fixed.”

She smiles. “I forgot you were the smart one. I can hear them, Sam. Every single soul stuck in the Veil. And I can’t fix it on my own. If Metatron is dead then we have a chance of being able to re-open the gates of Heaven. He’s currently using the angel tablet to give himself extra powers. You know how much Death hates when people do that. So I’d like to get it fixed before I have to go to my boss and tell him the angels are fucking shit up again.”

Sam snorts a laugh, before composing himself. “While I agree that the Veil needs fixing, and I’d quite like Metatron’s head on a plate myself, I have other problems I need to take care of first.”

Tessa waves a hand. “Yes of course. Crowley, and that ugly Mark on your brother’s arm. Also there’s the task of getting all the demons in line, which might take a while. No offense intended, but they’re an obstinate lot, usually.”

“So you understand that I can’t do anything about the angel situation yet?”

“Completely. But once you’re established as the uncontested King of Hell, I need you to help me fix this. And I’m more than happy to help speed things up in order to get there.”

“So you want to help me get rid of my problems so I’ll help you get rid of yours?” Sam frowns. “I already owe you a favour; you don’t need to help me with anything.”

“I know. But you’re the best option for a stable regime in Hell, and you have enough connections upstairs that it’ll smooth things over if you’re involved with re-opening Heaven, as well. So as it turns out, Sam Winchester, I’m on your side.”


	9. Chapter 9

Sam’s nervous. Not outwardly, of course. He can’t look nervous anymore. Doesn’t stop the fact of it though. He’s sitting in an overly comfortable chair in one of the receiving rooms (and seriously, what kind of people have receiving rooms in their house? He’s starting to see Balaam’s point about Kent), facing the door. Balaam and Tessa are with him, and they’re waiting for the rest of Sam’s court to join them. Sam himself is just trying not to think too much about what he’s intending to do here.

He needs to play a part here, he knows. Arrogant, completely in control, and infallible. It’s unfortunate he feels none of those things. Abaddon and Balaam are the only ones to have been told his plan explicitly, but Sam would lay good money on Asmodeus being aware of everything. He’s been in charge of this particular set of demons for far too long for there to be no residual loyalty to him.

There are five factions in total that are meeting him here today. Leaders and two other demons each. And he needs them to join him.

Tessa shifts on his left, and he smiles up at her. “Nerves, Tessa?”

“I’m a Reaper. I’m a great believer in there being at least an outline of a plan. You do not have a plan.”

“Of course I do.”

“Sam, these are demons. Not your average schmuck either. These guys are leaders of factions that are setting themselves up against the King of Hell of the past four years, and the newcomer that hosted Lucifer. It’s going to take more than a decent speech to turn them.”

“I wasn’t planning on talking them down.”

“What? Sam –“

He interrupts her without apology. “Tessa, if you can’t keep a good poker face for this you can leave. I know what I’m doing.”

She eyes him for a second and subsides. He doesn’t want to kick her out. She’s a valuable ally. Besides, he likes her. And for whatever reason she seems to have decided she likes him. Or, at least, that’s how Sam is choosing to interpret her argument with Balaam that morning over what colour shirt he should wear. (Balaam wanted crimson. Sam and Tessa thought it was too flashy. Sam personally isn’t sure the dark green one she picked out is any better, but they both seemed to like it. For some reason they both then insisted on a three-piece black suit as well. Sam would be just as happy in a shirt and jeans, but they were very insistent.)

Abaddon enters the room, followed by two of her lieutenants (who had seemed inordinately pleased to have been chosen for this, until he remembered Balaam’s point about it being an honour to serve him. Sam’s still uncomfortable with that), dragging Castor with them. The demon was bleeding profusely the last time Sam had seen him, in the dungeon Belphegor had set up downstairs. He’s presentable now, but still looks very much the worse for wear. He’s told Ramuthra, Alastair’s apprentice, everything he knows. He’s useless to them now. Sam still isn’t sure he’s done anything to deserve what will shortly be happening to him, but he needs to make an example of him. Hopefully he won’t have to do it again.

Abaddon bows to him and gives him a very obvious once-over. “And to think I claimed to be sexier than you, boss.” She grins at him. “Nice suit.”

Sam smirks. He’s getting used to the flirting now. They all do it, although Balaam is by far the worst. “I doubt I could pull off all that leather.”

Abaddon laughs and gestures to her lieutenants to drag Castor over to the window. “Well if you ever need help pulling off any leather, boss, you just let me know.” Sam’s smirk turns into a grin. It’s surprising how non-threatening demons are when they’ve decided they like you (and want to jump your bones, in some cases).

Asmodeus slips into the room and bows to Sam.

“My King, the leaders of the other factions are here.”

Sam nods at him. “Show them in.”

Balaam breathes out on Sam’s right. “Showtime.”

The fifteen demons that follow Asmodeus into the room are much what Sam expected. Vaguely belligerent, slightly wary. And they all recognise him.

The shouting starts almost immediately.

“What the hell is this? You’re all bending over for a fucking Winchester?” One of the demons yells.

Asmodeus walks over to stand near Castor. “He is the King of Hell.”

Another, using a small girl as a vessel (and that’s going to have to stop), picks up. “Hell has no King. Hell needs no King. Go back to hunting, Winchester.”

The rest of the demons agree with this statement with varying degrees of anger. The overwhelming sentiment appears to be general disdain for Crowley, and mockery of Sam. No fear of him, at all. Another thing he needs to change if he wants to be taken seriously. Sam leans back in his chair and stays quiet.

Abaddon and her lieutenants also appear unmoved. They have instructions not to intervene unless someone makes a move on him, but Sam was slightly concerned they’d get angry. He should have known Abaddon better than that, he supposes: she’s not the type to choose her lieutenants carelessly.

Sam turns back to the demons in front of him. They’ve worked themselves into a frenzy now, yelling at him and Asmodeus, demanding explanations.

But none of them have left.

Asmodeus meets his eyes for a second. The demon looks mildly concerned, but hasn’t spoken again since the beginning. Balaam is completely stoic beside him. Tessa’s shifting back and forth on her feet. Nervous. Time to end this before one of his court decides to ruin things.

“ _Silence._ ” It’s not the Speech, but it’s imbued with enough power to shut everyone in the room up. Completely.

Sam looks the assembled demons over dispassionately. A few of them look mildly interested, but most seem unimpressed.

“You all seem to be under the impression that I am asking for your permission.”

Sam turns to Castor, and exhales. He has to do this. He’d just really like confirmation that it’s not going to fuck up the universe. The spell-work is his own, reverse engineered from the ritual Sammael found, and a few others. He has to believe it will work.

“Does he know anything else of interest?” He addresses Abaddon. He already knows the answer, but a little grandstanding can’t hurt.

“No, my King. Ramuthra extracted everything he knew. He’s useless to us now.” She grins. It’s more than a little bloodthirsty. “Should I kill him?”

“No.” Castor looks up at him at that. Whatever he sees in Sam’s face must scare him, because he immediately starts begging.

“No, please, my King! I will serve you, I swear it! Please -!” Sam waves a hand and silences him. He starts the incantation he memorised this morning, allowing the residual power left over from the demon blood to fuel it. He doesn’t need the blood, he never did really, but this is a nasty spell and he needs to look completely unaffected by it. The air in the room is charged with power, making it slightly hard to breathe as Sam works through the spell. He forces himself not to react to the terror on Castor’s face.

Castor vanishes silently as he finishes. The next five minutes are the dicey part. If the demons think this is just a trick then he’s lost them. If, however, they followed enough of the incantation to realise what he’s done, they’re not going anywhere.

Sam turns back to the other demons in the room. The silence is complete, and most of them look terrified. Asmodeus is looking at him blankly, apparently stunned. He might have been wrong about the level of influence the older demon still has over Sam’s court.

“Does anyone else wish to express displeasure with my leadership?” Sam asks quietly.

The silence is unbroken for another minute (it feels longer, but that’s just nerves, he tells himself), before the little-girl demon steps forward and kneels, followed immediately by her subordinates. One by one the rest of the demons follow suit, and Sam exchanges an expressionless glance with Asmodeus, who has lost the shocked look and seems appreciative. (Lucifer is giving him a standing ovation from the back of the room.)

The demons all swear their allegiance to him, and then leave the room with Asmodeus, Abaddon and her lieutenants to collect their followers and be reassigned. Sam exhales and stands, before turning back to Balaam and Tessa. The Reaper looks slightly bug-eyed, and he can’t really blame her.

Not every day someone figures out how to banish demons to the Cage, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay, life got in the way. Updates may now be much less frequent, as I have a report to hand in in a month and a half which is probably going to put me off writing. A lot.


	10. Chapter 10

Sam’s sitting alone in the library a couple of days after the meeting with the other demons. Balaam’s not hovering over him, for once; apparently even he doubts Sam’s ability to get himself in trouble while sitting in a library. Sam should probably be offended by the fact that his personal guard thinks he’s a concussed puppy, but it’s… nice. To have someone looking after him. Someone who actually listens to him, that is.

Which brings him back to the reason he’s sitting in the library with a stack of books. Dean. The Mark.

He’s been over various sources multiple times, desperately trying to find something that will remove the Mark from his brother. So far the only suggestion the books have made is that the one who branded him in the first place could remove it, but somehow Sam doubts that Cain could (or would) remove it. From what he understood from Dean, and a couple of the demons that have come over from Crowley’s side (Crowley’s been haemorrhaging followers the last few days. Sam controls about eighty percent of the demons who’ve chosen to involve themselves now. He’d be pleased if he wasn’t worried what backing Crowley into a corner will make him do), Cain transferred the Mark to Dean. In Sam’s opinion (and in Asmodeus’), transfer does not equal branding. So the source of the Mark remains the same, and however much Sam loves his brother, he draws the line at reopening the Cage to free Lucifer so Sam can ask him to pretty please be nice to his brother. He knows how that would end, and one round of being possessed by an archangel was more than enough. Plus there’s the whole Apocalypse thing. All in all, not an attractive plan.

So he needs another way to remove it. According to all the literature he and his council can put their hands on, as well as the combined knowledge accumulated over countless millennia by fallen angels and demons alike, it’s impossible. There’s an outside chance another archangel could remove it, but even if there were any left that were well-disposed towards the Winchesters, Lucifer wasn’t technically an archangel anymore. Asmodeus and Sammael have told him that the act of Falling changes an angel slightly, which means that the only being in the Universe capable of summoning the exact same power as Lucifer, was the Devil himself. Sam thinks Death could do it, but he also thinks that Death would (justifiably) be furious if Sam summoned him to fix another Winchester fuck-up. Tessa emphatically agrees with him.

Sam leans back in his chair and sighs. If there’s no way to remove the Mark, Dean will eventually become a demon. A Knight of Hell, to be exact. The process can be sped up by wanton bloodshed and murder, which isn’t exactly reassuring given that the last time Sam hunted with Dean he seemed more concerned with killing as many vampires as possible rather than helping Jody, Alex or Sam get out alive.

Dean’s becoming a demon and Sam can’t stop it. The only thing he could do would be to control it, which he’s more than capable of. At least that way he could make sure Dean still stays Dean. But that starts bearing a remarkable resemblance to what Dean did to him to keep him alive, especially given that control over the Mark gives him control over Dean. He wouldn’t even have to convince Dean to recognise him as King of Hell, all that would be necessary would be to attune the Mark to him, and it wouldn’t even occur to his brother to doubt Sam’s authority. He’d still be Dean, but Sam could make sure he didn’t carve through half his army before Sam can kill Crowley.

But he doesn’t want to. It would mean going back on every promise he ever made Dean. Made himself. It would make him into what Azazel wanted for him. It would make him wrong.

He’s fully aware, however, that if Crowley’s even half the tactician Sam thinks he is, he’s not going to be left another choice. He’s going to have to at least use the Mark to subdue Dean long enough to take out Crowley.

The sound of his phone ringing brings him out of his thoughts. He answers it almost reflexively, not looking at the caller id.

“Hello?”

“Sammy?”

“Dean? Are you ok?” Something must have happened. Dean was far too angry to be calling to reconcile.

A huff sounds down the line. “Fine. Where are you?”

Sam winces at Dean’s tone. “Kent.”

“Where?” Sam rolls his eyes.

“England, Dean.”

“How the hell did you get to England?”

“Demon teleport thing.”

There’s a brief silence from Dean’s end. “You’re still not giving up this dumb idea then?”

Sam rests his forehead on the heel of his hand. There are no words for quite how much he doesn’t want to have this conversation again.

“No. Mainly because it’s the only decent plan we’ve had in a while. And also because I’m winning, and if I back out now the entirety of Hell will be gunning for us. More than usual.”

“Sam, look, I get that your panties are still in a twist because of Gadreel, really, I do. But siding with demons is wrong and you know it! Dad would kill you!”

Ice-cold rage floods through Sam at that. It feels like Lucifer all over again, and it’s all the more terrifying because he knows it’s all coming from him.

“Got my panties in a twist? Dean, you rented my body out to a fucking psychopathic angel with no regard for the lives of our friends, who eventually sided with Metatron, and whose idea of informed consent makes Lucifer look good! Don’t you _dare_ tell me I’m overreacting!” Sam pulls himself together a little. “And frankly, this is the only option we have left. You took on the Mark of Cain, despite the fact that Abaddon was not even remotely our problem, she was Crowley’s, and it’s _turning you into a demon_. You made that choice of your own free will, and it’s about to bite you on the ass. And Dad told you to kill me when I was twenty-two and still believed in angels. So quite frankly I think he’d have killed me years ago. If he had the balls to do it himself, and not palm it off onto you, obviously.”

 That’s a cheap shot and Sam knows it, but he is so utterly fucking exhausted of his family making decisions for him. It’s been thirty years (on Earth, anyway). More, if you count the deal Mary made to allow John to live. Sam doesn’t hold it against her, per se, but he really wishes she hadn’t done it. He’d not have existed if she’d not made the deal, after all. He just wants to be able to make a decision for himself. Just once. The last time anyone had let him do that he’d met Jess, and she’s still the best thing that ever happened to him, even with how things turned out. He knows that’s selfish. But God does he miss her.

There’s stunned silence for more than a minute after Sam stopped talking. He’s not stupid enough to think that means he got through to Dean.

“Sam, you have exactly ten seconds to retract all the bullcrap you just said or I swear to God –“

“What, Dean? You’ll hit me? You do that kind of a lot anyway. You’ll kill me?”

“Enough already! You need to come back to the bunker, and we’ll deal with whatever happens afterwards. This isn’t up for debate, Sam. Come back.”

“I can’t do that. I know you think this is a mistake, but it’s –“

“For once in your goddamn life, stop being such an infant and just do as you’re damn well told!”

Sam lets that hang in the air for a moment. “No, Dean. This is the best plan we have. Or did you miss the part where you were turning into a demon.”

“I am not turning into a demon! The Mark lets me use the Blade, that’s it.”

“You really believe that?” Sam’s pacing now, trying not to let his frustration bleed into his voice. “Dean, it’s Lucifer’s Mark. You _will_ turn into a demon.”

“I can control it.”

“No, Dean. You can’t. And for the record, you’re starting to sound like I did when I was on demon blood.” Sam pauses. “Dean, I want you to know that even with all the Gadreel crap, you’re still my brother and I care about you. But you’re wrong about this. And I could do with your help.”

Another pause. “Goodbye Sam.”

Sam listens to the dial tone for a few seconds, before ending the call, and letting the phone drop onto the table in front of him. His shoulders hitch a few times, before he regains control of himself, and turns back to the books in front of him.

He’s reread all of them by the time Asmodeus comes to find him, and has the outline of a plan which might not turn him into everything he hates. But it’s going to take time he doesn’t have anymore. According to information gleaned (unpleasant word, that) from Crowley’s supporters, Crowley will be at Stull Cemetery tomorrow evening.

It really shouldn’t surprise Sam that much. Crowley always did know how to press an advantage.


	11. Chapter 11

There aren't really adequate words for quite how much Sam hates this place. The last time he saw it, he was soulless, and had just started to drag himself away, after praying, yelling, screaming and finally begging Cas to come and tell him if he was out or not. He hadn’t even cared how he was out; at that point, he’d just wanted to know that this wasn’t one of Lucifer’s games. He wishes he’d gotten an answer to that, the uncertainty still haunts him.

Lucifer’s standing in the corner of his eye now, casting derisive looks at Balaam, who’s hovering over Sam and looking distinctly worried.

Asmodeus is standing to his left, and Sam would pay money to know what he’s thinking. He’d gone quiet during the meeting Sam had called after being told where Crowley would be today, and hasn’t spoken much since. Sam catches his eye and jerks his head forward slightly. The demon nods and follows him. They stop just out of earshot of the rest of Sam’s army (just under fifty demons, Abaddon thought more would be unnecessary. There’s more on standby, because Sam’s paranoid like that) and Sam turns back to him.

“Would you like to tell me what’s troubling you?”

“Crowley’s a jumped-up crossroads demon with delusions of grandeur, but he’s not stupid. This is a trap. And you know it, because you’re not stupid either. So why are we here?” Asmodeus’ voice is flat.

Sam raises an eyebrow at him. “Such very little faith in me, Asmodeus.” The demon acknowledges the hit with a slight smile. “Crowley will be here because he knows I will be, and he thinks he has the upper hand. He has precisely one ace left up his sleeve and he’s going to try and play it. Otherwise he can’t possibly win.”

Asmodeus considers that for a second. “And you believe that his play won’t work?”

“It will, but not in the way he’d prefer. I imagine he suspects that he’s not going to beat me. Now he’s just aiming for the consolation prize.”

“Which is?”

Sam’s jaw twitches slightly. “He wants to make sure winning is worthless for me.”

Asmodeus stares at him contemplatively. “You know what you’re going to do, then?”

Sam nods, and Asmodeus turns to go back to the others. After a moment, Sam follows him. Balaam smiles at him as he walks over, and takes his place behind Sam again.

“Everything ok, boss?”

Sam smiles at him. “I’ll let you know once we’re done here.”

“Hello Moose.”

Crowley’s standing right where the hole to the Cage was. Of course he is. The remainder of the demons under his control are ranged behind him, including Cain. Sam didn’t see that one coming, but he can deal with it. There are far more important matters at hand, after all.

The fact that his brother is standing next to Crowley, for one thing.

Dean’s almost unrecognisable with his face etched with that snarl. He almost looks feral. (Demonic, Lucifer whispers to him. Sam resists the urge to turn and glare at what he knows is a hallucination.)

“You should have listened to your brother, Moose.” Sam would very much like to punch the smug look off Crowley’s face, but somehow he doubts that’s in the cards. Yet, anyway.

“You already had him when he phoned me.” It’s not a question. It would explain quite a few things, including why Dean called at all.

“Course I did. Such a very touching conversation it was, too. All that about needing your big brother with you, Sam. Are the nasty demons being mean to you?”

Sam smirks at Crowley. “Really? Overly transparent lies in order to try and get some followers back? I had a better opinion of your intelligence.” He turns to Dean. “This isn’t your fight, Dean. Go home.”

It won’t work, but he has to try, right?

The smile on his brother’s face makes him reconsider. “Sorry Sammy. Someone has to clean up your fuck-ups.” Well at least the reasoning behind Dean’s decision isn’t a surprise.

The way his eyes roll over to black, however, causes Sam’s stomach to plummet. His jaw clenches involuntarily. Crowley sees it, obviously, and grins gleefully.

Sam shuts his eyes for a second ( _no no no not Dean, not this, anything but this, he was going to save his brother for once, damnit, not be the thing that drove him towards Crowley_ ) and directs his next words to Crowley. “So, I’m guessing you called him with a fake hunt, let him amp up the bloodlust enough to turn him quasi-demonic, and then, what? Sent him downstairs for a refresher course?” Flippant is good. Flippant makes it look like he knows what he’s doing.

“Actually, no. The Mark doesn’t require years on the rack to turn you. More of a fast track, if you will. All I had to do was kill him.” Crowley buffs his fingers on his coat.

Sam swears his heart stops for a second. “Kill him?” His eyes skim over dean without permission, trying to see if he’s hurt. He looks fine, but demonic healing capabilities make that more or less meaningless.

“Can’t be a demon if you’re still alive, Sammy-boy. I let my hellhounds do it. I’m sure you can appreciate the irony.”

Sam looks to the side for a second, until he can trust his voice not to break when he speaks. “And now he answers to you.”

“I’m the King of Hell, darling. He still sees me that way, even if you don’t. It wasn’t that difficult to persuade him to be my pet. Big brother doesn’t like you all that much, Moose.”

Breathe in. This doesn’t change anything. There’s a hand left to play, and Sam knows he can win this one. He just can’t think about how the previous hand cost his brother the humanity he held on to for so long.

“So, you wanted us here, we’re here. What now?”

Crowley grins at him. “Now? Now we find out if your brother loves you as much as you loved him when you jumped into the Cage for him. Squirrel, be a good boy and kill Moose for me.”

Balaam hisses and puts himself in front of Sam before Dean’s even started moving. Dean doesn’t even look like he registers the demon’s presence; he’s staring straight at Sam and walking towards him, twirling the First Blade slowly.

“Get back.” This isn’t anyone else’s problem, it’s his. Nobody needs to die for it.

Dean’s got a clear shot at Sam now that Balaam’s moved (very reluctantly, by the look on his face, but he doesn’t disobey direct orders).

“Dean, stop. Put the Blade down.” No effect. “Dean!”

“I don’t think that’s going to work, Moose.” Crowley taunts. “Tell you what, surrender and get on your knees and I’ll think about letting you live. My boys could use some entertainment.”

“Dean!” He’s too close now. Sam has to. Damnit all to fucking hell, why did it have to come to this? “ _Stop_.”

And he does. Completely. Sam ignores the tightening in his chest at the sight of his brother reduced to a demonic lapdog.

“ _Drop the Blade.”_ It thuds as it hits the floor in between Dean and Sam. Sam picks it up and throws it to Balaam, who looks as grave as Sam’s ever seen him. Sam can’t imagine he’s surprised, but if anyone here could make a guess at how badly Sam didn’t want it to go this way, it would be him.

“ _Sleep._ ”

Dean drops to the ground and is caught by Belphegor, who looks up at Sam, waiting for orders to take Dean back to the house in Kent. Sam nods, and turns his attention to Crowley and Cain.

The latter is as inscrutable as the rest of the older demons are, but Crowley’s expression appears to be oscillating between smug and terrified.

“Impressive, Moose. Didn’t know you could Speak. I suppose you’ll be wanting my allegiance right about now?”

“No.” Sam lets his face settle into the stony mask Lucifer used when he was displeased.

The smug is almost all gone from Crowley’s expression now. The high of forcing Sam to take over his brother’s mind isn’t as entertaining when you suspect you won’t be around to see it, it would seem.

“You’ve had a busy few years, Crowley. You helped us defeat Lucifer, and I thank you for that. However, you then decided to try and take over the world, enslaved half my family, almost restarted the Apocalypse by working with Raphael, before deciding to start murdering people we saved, kidnapping Kevin… I could go on. To be honest with you, I probably could have gotten past that. I’m informed you were fairly good at your crossroads job, and I was debating allowing you to go back to that.”

Crowley smirks slightly. “Well I was excellent, if I do say so myself. No hard feelings, boss. When do I start?”

“I said I was debating it.” Sam glares at him. “Unfortunately for you, murdering my brother does compromise that plan somewhat.”

“Sam, it was a bid for Kingship of Hell, you can’t honestly have expected me to ignore that good an opportunity? That's just the way the game’s played, mate.” There’s a tinge of panic to Crowley’s voice.

“No, I didn’t expect you to ignore it.” Sam smirks at him, and watches as watches as Crowley’s face shifts to full-blown terror. “But you really should have known better.”

Sam raises his right hand and watches realisation wash over Crowley. “I’m sure you can appreciate the irony.”

Sam snaps his fingers. The former King of Hell explodes in a cloud of blood and guts.


	12. Chapter 12

Sam surveys the bloody mess that used to be Crowley and doesn’t even pretend not to smirk. Even with the mess Sam still has to clean up, Dean and Hell and Metatron and everything else that is going to require his attention soon, he’s so very glad Crowley’s gone. His gaze shifts from what was Crowley to Cain, who’s looking bored with everything. His expression changes slightly when he notices Sam watching him, gaining an aloof quality.

Sam debates making him break the silence, and then decides he really doesn’t have time to play games. “Is there a way to remove the Mark?”

“From your brother? No.” Cain eyes Sam for a minute. “I have no interest in returning to Hell.”

Sam raises an eyebrow at him and waits for him to continue. Cain undoubtedly wants something, and while his dismissal of Dean as unimportant annoys him, he’s too dangerous to allow to leave without some kind of guarantee he’s not going to fuck everything up as soon as Sam turns his back.

“I would be willing to swear non-involvement in everything concerning Hell and your family, for the rest of eternity, in return for one small favour.”

That would probably be for the best. Sam doesn’t want him, especially not if Dean stays. “Which is?”

“Your brother has to kill me when I ask him to.”

Sam hesitates. He doesn’t like making deals for someone else, and he particularly doesn’t like the assumption that Dean will automatically do what Sam says. Still, it’s a relatively low price, and killing demons is kind of their thing. _Was_ kind of their thing. “Done. Swear.”

Cain does, and the mark on his arm flares in response. He waits for Sam’s nod, and promptly disappears.

The rest of the demons that had supported Crowley start shifting nervously. Sam can’t even begin to be bothered dealing with them: they’re unimportant and weak and the fact that Crowley was using them at all speaks volumes to how desperate he was.

“You lot are going to go with Abaddon, and she’s going to decide what to do with you.” Sam turns to his demons (and yep, that’s still weird). “Let’s go home.”

Seconds later, they rematerialize in the house in Kent.

Sam turns to Belphegor, who is standing by the stairs, obviously waiting for them.

“Dean?”

Belphegor bows. “In one of the bedrooms on the floor below yours, my King. He’s still asleep.”

“Thank you.” Sam runs a hand through his hair. “Meeting room, all of you. And could someone find me some coffee?”

Balaam nods and disappears, as the other make their way into what has become Sam’s council room and take their usual seats. Tessa sits next to Abaddon at the far end. Sam’s not going to question their apparent friendship. It scares him a little.

“Alright.” Sam breathes out slowly. “Asmodeus, contact all demons that we left out of this until now. The administration, everyone. They either swear loyalty to me or they spend some quality time in the cells with Ramuthra.”

He’s slowly learning how to do this, how to be in command of these demons (despite Lucifer insisting that they’re better than him, and so much more powerful, and they’re just waiting for a chance to screw him over), and he’s starting to enjoy it now. Besides, he needs them all to be clear on their assigned duties (he remembers Ellen saying _“Idle hands do the Devil’s work_ ” back before he knew angels were real, and suppresses a laugh) if he wants to keep Hell running smoothly.

Asmodeus nods. “I don’t anticipate any difficulty with that.”

Balaam appears behind Sam and puts a coffee on the table in front of him.

“Good. Abaddon, the demons that were with Crowley are yours to deal with. If you think any of them are a flight risk, either stick them in cells in Hell until they reconsider, or kill them outright. I’m not too bothered which.”

“Yes sir.” She smiles at him. “I also need a few more lieutenants to keep everyone in line, do you have any preference as to who I use?”

“Not in the slightest. Whoever’s best at the job.” Sam taps his fingers against the table for a second while he thinks. “Astaroth, you are already in contact with most of the Reapers, yes?”

“I am.” Astaroth straightens in his chair and looks a little more interested in the proceedings. He’s never seemed as invested in Sam being King of Hell as the others, but as long as he does his job and doesn’t decide mutiny is a good way to go, Sam doesn’t really care.

“I want to know everything possible about the problem with the Veil. Tessa, you’re with him. If there’s any way that you can contact someone in Heaven without alerting Metatron, try getting through to Ash. He managed to hack Heaven when we were up there; God knows what he’s managed by now.”

“My King, surely we should deal with Hell first?” Mephistopheles interjects.

Sam smirks at her. “At this stage, Hell is going to require paperwork and organisation. There are no more serious contenders, and while I might have to step on a few necks before they all fall in line, that’s basically what Abaddon’s for.” The redhead grins. Yep, definitely still a little scared of her. “I’m more concerned with the possibility of the angels deciding now would be a good time to restart their war or purge the earth of all demons.”

Astaroth nods. “So we want to send them home before they screw everything up?”

“Pretty much. Mephistopheles, until further notice you’re in charge of the crossroads demons. There are a few new rules, if any of your people ignore them I’m going to be displeased. No deals with children, by which I mean anyone under the age of eighteen, no collecting early, and they have to make it clear that the stupid bastard dealing with them is going to owe them their soul. Clear?”

It rankles to still be allowing this, but Sam likes to think he’s learned to be realistic. No-one’s making anyone summon a crossroads demon, after all.

“Of course, my King.” Mephistopheles doesn’t look delighted with her new duties, but someone has to keep the crossroads demons in line, and Sam has no doubts she can do it. Besides, everyone else has already got a job.

“Belphegor, you’ve got the cells and the racks. Any souls we’re owed through deals or their own actions, you deal with as you see fit. Anyone that seems out of place, you bring to me before doing anything. Put Ramuthra in charge of the racks, he seemed to know what he was doing, and any apprentice of Alastair’s not going to have any trouble keeping his people in order. Sammael, you’re with Astaroth and Tessa, I’m going to need a way to kill Metatron, a way to re-open Heaven, and potentially a way to seal all the angels back up there, because I’m getting somewhat tired of this angelic war crap. Any rituals or spells you find, you come to me with for approval. Asmodeus, you’re in charge of general admin and possessions. Keep most demons downstairs for now, there’s been far too many of them topside recently.”

Sam pauses. “Anything else?”

“All messages for you should go through Balaam, correct?” Mephistopheles asks.

“Yes.” Sam feels more than sees Balaam smirk to himself.

“Do you wish to change location, my King?” Asmodeus smiles at him. “We can change the location of the Gates, and I would suggest they be close to wherever you wish to stay permanently.”

“Where are they now?”

“The main ones are still in Wyoming. No-one’s changed the main location for a good couple of hundred years. There’s a lesser portal not far from here, which is part of the reason we chose this house.”

“I’m not sure yet. Leave them where they are for now. Put guards on any of them that are passable, and anyone wanting in or out goes through you. Is that it?”

Asmodeus nods.

Sam turns back to Belphegor. “Is my brother still asleep?” The demon nods. “Good. Balaam, with me. Everyone else, go do your jobs.” The demons all stand, bow and leave the room. Tessa smiles at Sam.

“I need to report back to my boss, Sam. I’ll be back shortly.” Sam waits until she’s disappeared, and gestures Balaam towards the seat next to him.

“So, I get to keep my job? Or am I getting promoted to chief consort and sex toy?” Balaam grinned. “Because that would be awesome.”

Sam grins at him. “I’m afraid not. I would like you to continue in your current job, but I have no interest in you doing it because you think you have to.”

“I already told you, boss, serving you is an honour. Besides, I like you. And it means I’m important.”

“Good. In that case, I’m going to need you to swear a slightly more complicated oath than you’ve already given me.” Sam pauses, debating how best to word the vow he wants. He wants – no, needs – to know he can trust Balaam with his secrets. He just needs one person who won’t betray him, who he can actually talk to, and who he can be whiny at about Hell and its accompanying annoyances without any fear that Balaam will turn around and tell anyone else.

As it happens, he’s pre-empted by Balaam sliding off his chair and kneeling in front of him. The oath he swears to Sam is Old Enochian, and probably hasn’t been used since before Lucifer got into the Garden. Sam exhales slowly as Balaam finishes and sits back down.

“That was slightly more than I was expecting.” Sam just wanted Balaam to swear to protect his secrets. He wasn’t expecting him to swear angelic, unconditional, completely-binding obedience vows.

Balaam shrugs. “You feel better about letting me be in the same room as you now, though, right?”

Sam smiles. “Maybe a little.”

“So would you like to tell me what’s bothering you?” Sam doesn’t even bother being surprised at that. Balaam’s starting to display an uncanny tendency to know when he’s concerned about something. The incessant flirting apparently hides some degree of genuine affection for Sam. Maybe more than a little, if the vow he just swore is any indication.

“Dean.”

Balaam’s face twists into a frown. “He’s here, we’ve hidden the blade from him, and he hasn’t killed anyone you like yet. That’s better than you were expecting.”

“He refused to help me before I was King of Hell and he’s not going to like it any better now. The only difference is he’s a demon now and is even less likely to listen to me at all due to Crowley messing with his head.”

“Alright, look, I know you’re going to be pissed at me for even suggesting this, but the Speech does give you a certain advantage. You could make him listen to you, at least.”

Sam finishes his coffee and smiles ruefully. “Somehow I don’t think that’d make him happier with me.”

“Probably not, but I don’t think that’s what you’re worried about.”

“What am I worried about then?”

“You’re afraid that because he’s a demon and you’re the King of Hell, he won’t get a choice. You’re worried that he’ll do exactly what you want him to because you want it, not because he wants it. And you’re terrified there’s nothing of your brother left.”

Sam rubs his hand over his face. “I’d say that covers most of it, yes.”

“And I thought Azazel was exaggerating when he told us how dumb you were about each other. First off, Cain didn’t give a shit what you wanted earlier. He negotiated what he wanted out of you being King and then left. So obviously the Mark doesn’t make a demon a slave to your will, no matter what the books you’ve been reading have said.” Balaam starts ticking off Sam’s concerns as he goes. “Second, you could use the Speech to make Dean swear loyalty to you, at which point he would effectively be your servant, but I think we both know there’s no way in Hell, Heaven or Purgatory you’d ever take away your brother’s free will. And finally, having made the transition to demon myself, I didn’t change all that much. Neither did Lilith, for that matter. She was always a bitch. Turning into a demon doesn’t change your personality, it just skews your moral compass.” Balaam concludes with a smile.

Sam eyes him with amusement and tries not to let his relief show on his face. Force of habit. “Are you done?”

“Are you going to go actually talk to Dean instead of sitting here worrying?”

Sam sighs and pushes himself to his feet. “I thought I was your boss?”

Balaam laughs at him. “Course you are, but my job is to look after you. Which means you need to get your delightfully proportioned self upstairs so I can ogle you later without feeling guilty about doing it while you’re miserable.” He makes a shooing motion with his hand. “Go. I’ll find you some food and make sure you get the reports from Asmodeus.”

Sam goes.


	13. Chapter 13

Sam makes his way up the stairs slowly. He’s not dragging his feet, precisely, but to say he’s not looking forward to this conversation is an understatement.

If he’s honest with himself, he has no idea what he’s walking into. Dean might wake up and be himself again, albeit with a few more demonic attributes than normal. He might wake up and immediately try to execute Crowley’s last orders. Or he might not be Dean at all anymore.

Despite Balaam’s assurances that Dean’s personality won’t have changed, Sam’s still more than a little concerned. Dean pushed him away before he turned into a demon, after all. It’s doubtful things have gotten any better between them.

Dean’s lying on a double bed in the middle of the room, still unconscious (Sam’s unsure of the correct terminology: demons don’t actually sleep, do they?) and looking more peaceful than Sam has seen him in years. Since before Hell, maybe? Or he might have looked that way with Lisa, but those memories are slightly hazy… Apparently being re-souled doesn’t do much for your memory retention.

And he should probably stop stalling now.

_“Wake up.”_

Dean sits up immediately, not outwardly bearing the appearance of someone who was out cold three seconds ago. His eyes (green now, that’s… interesting, at least) focus on Sam.

“Sam? What the hell happened?” He sounds like Dean, at least.

“What do you remember?” Sam sits backwards on the chair next to the desk, resting his chin on his arms.

“Uhhh… Crowley. Calling you. Dying. Again…” Dean doesn’t seem overly bothered by anything he’s saying. He’s throwing glances around the room now.

Sam swallows. “Do you remember the cemetery?”

“I remember Crowley telling me to kill you, if that’s what you’re asking. What I don’t get is why I tried to actually do it.”

“You were turned into a demon, and the Mark ensures a certain amount of loyalty to whoever you think the King of Hell is. For you, that was Crowley, so you were loyal to him.” Sam shrugs. “That’s the theory, anyway. We’re not certain.”

“Makes sense, I guess. I mean, I was pissed at you, sure. Still am. But killing you isn’t really my kind of thing.” Dean smirks at him, apparently not considering the discussion important anymore.

Sam rolls his eyes. “No, but beating the shit out of me, gaslighting me, holding me down while an angel mind rapes me, those you’re fine with?”

“Sam, for fucks sake, we’ve been over this. Gadreel saved your life. Whatever else he did, he saved your damn life.” The anger’s still there then. And the “I’m older and I know best” attitude.

“And you wonder why I don’t trust you.” Sam holds up a hand to forestall Dean’s inevitable response. He doesn’t want to have this fight again, that’s not what he came up here for. Besides, fighting with Dean isn’t likely to make him want to stay, and Sam realises he really does want Dean to stay. He misses his brother. “You’re obviously not listening to me, and I don’t want to listen to you justifying the shit you pulled anymore. It’s not getting us anywhere, and there are more important things to deal with. Right now I need to know what you’re going to do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Are you going to stay and help me beat Hell into some kind of order, or not?”

“Seriously?” Dean stands and walks over to the window, before swinging back round to look at Sam, his arms crossed over his chest.

“What?”

“You’re still on this? After everything?”

“Define everything.”

Dean groans and swipes a hand over his face. “Sam, Crowley’s going to kill you. He may not have me anymore, but he has Cain, and a shit-ton of other demons. I can’t protect you if you don’t back the fuck down and leave Hell alone.”

Well that’s interesting. Although, misinformation would have made it easier for Crowley to persuade Dean to play ball, Sam muses.

 “Crowley’s dead, Dean. And he barely had any followers left by the time we got to Stull.”

 “What?” Dean’s eyebrows climb up his forehead.

“I killed him.” Sam smirks slightly. “The fucker’s dead. Permanently.”

“You? You killed him?”

A slight frown crosses Sam’s face before he can stop it. “Still think I need a chaperone?”

“I told you I never meant it like that.”

“Sure you didn’t. So are you with me or not?”

“And what if I’m not?”

“Then… I don’t know. You can leave, go back to hunting and helping Cas, I guess. You’re a demon, Dean. You’ve kind of removed most of your options.”

“Yeah, well, if you hadn’t decided to go become the king of all douchebags maybe Crowley wouldn’t have turned me into a fucking demon!”

“Crowley sped up the process, Dean. Once you took on the Mark, you were always going to end up a demon. Don’t you dare put that on me, that was your choice.”

“You don’t know that!”

Oh for fuck’s sake. Delusion is apparently not a good look even on a demon.

Sam sighs. “The people who were closest to the origin of the Mark all agree with me. You take on the Mark, it changes you into a demon.”

Dean scrubs a hand down his face. “Shit… Fucking Crowley, you’d think he could have mentioned that…”

“Except he wanted you to take the Mark because he wanted to get rid of Abaddon. And Crowley always liked controlling us.”

“Ok. Ok… Is there a cure? Like we tried with Crowley?” Dean still doesn’t look too bothered by his state.

“No, unfortunately not. You’re a Knight of Hell, which means you can’t be cured, and you can’t be killed by anything other than the First Blade.”

Dean smirks at him. “And you’re ok with this? Just going to let me be a demon?”

“Not like you gave me much choice, Dean. And it wasn’t my choice in the first place.” Sam sighs and tries to bring the conversation back on track. “So what are you going to do?”

“Maybe there’s something at the bunker, we should head back there. Where are we?”

“Kent. You want to go back to the bunker? I checked most of the library there before I left, there’s nothing about the Mark of Cain except a few vague references. The Men of Letters didn’t seem to be entirely sure it existed.”

“We need to regroup, figure out what we do from here. Cas might know how to fix this.”

Yeah maybe. Highly unlikely though, given that he didn’t even know how to remove the Mark.

“Dean, I already know what I’m doing. I’ll help you with anything you need, but I’ve got a shitload of bureaucracy and red tape to deal with, and then I promised Tessa I’d help reopen Heaven. Metatron’s still kind of a problem.”

“Come on, Sam! You’re not serious?” The words aren’t imbued with the emotion Dean would usually put behind them, but they sound like his brother nonetheless.

“What?”

“The King of Hell crap… Sam, look, I get that you’re pissed, ok? I honestly do. But you need to stop being a bitch about it. What you’re doing? It’s wrong. And you know that.”

Sam can’t help it. He laughs. Laughs until it hurts, and there’s more than a tinge of hysteria to it, because really? After everything that’s happened, that’s all Dean can find to say?

“Morally? Yes. It’s wrong. Completely and utterly wrong. I mean, Christ, Dean, I’ve okayed demon deals. I’m allied with the pieces of shit that have taken everything from us. I’ve crossed every single line you and Dad ever told me was forbidden, and for the first time in years, we are winning!”

“Sam –“

“No, Dean! Hell is no longer gunning for us. Do you even remember what that’s like, because I don’t! Demons have been after us since before we were born! We were genetically engineered to provide two douchebag angels with meatsuits for a grudge match, and we beat them, and Hell still came after us. And now there’s this. You’re a demon, a Knight of Hell. I’m infected with demon blood and angelic grace and some form of goddamn humanity that has never done me any good at all. It got Jess killed. It got me killed, which then got you killed. My humanity has ended the world, and saved it, and let you down so many times I can’t even count them anymore. I have to believe I can actually do some good, Dean. I have to. So yes, I’m the King of Hell.”

“Sammy…”

“No, Dean. We’ve tried being good. We’ve tried so goddamn hard and we have fucked things up time and time again. We don’t owe the world anything anymore. We never did. And I’m tired of desperately trying to be the good guy and failing every single time.” Sam breathes in and continues. “I don’t know if you’ve thought this through yet, Dean, but as of now you really can’t throw stones as to my choices. Yours turned you into a demon. And while you don’t seem to have changed in personality, you might want to consider how other hunters will see it.”

Dean stares at him for a moment, and then nods. “Fine. If that’s how you want this to go, fine. Don’t come crying to me when some hunter or demon stabs you in the back because you were in over your head. I’m still me, and I can still hunt, but I’m done trying to save you from your own fucking stupid decisions, Sam. I’m going back to the bunker. Don’t come back until you pull your head out of your ass.”

Dean leaves the room. Sam stares at the door, before standing and following him out. Dean’s already in the entrance hall by the time Sam has made it down the first set of stairs. He’s still out of Dean’s line of sight, but he can hear him perfectly well.

So when Balaam flickers into existence in front of Dean, the resultant surprised shout is completely audible.

Tessa materialises next to Sam and places a hand on his arm, stopping him from ordering Balaam out of the way. She shakes her head slightly. Sam follows her line of sight, slightly confused as to why she thinks letting Dean and Balaam have a fight is a good thing.

Dean’s angrily demanding that Balaam move when Abaddon walks out of the meeting room, leans against the doorframe and surveys the scene as if expecting to be provided with entertainment.

Balaam grins at her as Dean subsides, obviously not comfortable with being outnumbered, even if he is basically invincible now.

“So, you’re not staying, then?” Balaam asks him, grin fading into a mild glare.

“No. Now get the hell out of my way.”

“Oh. Why not?” Balaam cocks his head to the side. “Too many black eyes around here for you, demon?”

“Because I’m not going to stand here and watch my dumbass little brother end the world again. I’m done. He can clear up his own fuckups for once.”

Balaam laughs. “I really hope you’re joking. Hell is actually stable for the first time since before you shot Azazel. And if you’re talking about the fiasco with Lucifer, you really have no right to throw the first stone. Or the second. Or the constant hail of stones you’ve been throwing at the boss since you came back from Hell.”

“The hell are you talking about?”

Abaddon laughs. “You, idiot! You started it! You don’t even have the excuse that you thought you were doing the right thing, because I’m pretty sure that even you know torture doesn’t look so good when your soul’s weighed up.”

Balaam nods and picks up. “You broke the first seal because you wanted Alastair to stop torturing you. Which I understand, believe me, but you don’t get to sweep it under the rug, either. You started it, and Sam broke the last seal because all the information he had told him that killing Lilith was a good thing. His motives were somewhat purer than yours.”

“Ok, look, I know Sam hates my guts now or something, but if he wants to tell me something he can tell me himself.”

“Oh this isn’t him talking. He actually thinks you’re worth something. We don’t.” Abaddon smirks at him.

Sam starts down the stairs again at that, because this is going too far. Tessa holds on to his arm, attempting to stop him, but Sam drags his arm loose and rounds the corner. Balaam and Abaddon see him immediately, but Dean has his back to him.

“See here’s the thing, Dean.” Balaam continues, meeting Sam’s eyes for a second. “We were cheering you on the entire year after you got out of Hell. You did the difficult part of Ruby’s job for her. The angels pulled you in one direction, Ruby pulled Sam in another, and you just couldn’t get rid of him fast enough, could you? You pushed him away, Dean.”

Abaddon picks back up. “And for the record, he did clear up his last fuck-up, as you choose to term it. Hauling Lucifer back into the box is not an easy feat. We were there when Michael threw him in there the first time. That a human, no matter how exceptional, managed to do so again is nothing short of a miracle.”

“Precisely.” Balaam nods. “So maybe, just maybe, you should stop whaling on your brother for things that he’s not the only one at fault for, and start appreciating the fact that he saved the world for you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course I do. And you know I’m right, you’ve just chosen to ignore your part in things for so long that you can’t even remember what it was like to take responsibility for something. You can walk out that door now, I’m certainly not going to stop you. You’re not any good for Sam. But if you do, you’re going to be alone. Castiel might help you but he has bigger problems right now as well.”

Dean glares at him for a solid minute before growling at him to move. He’s pushing through the door when Balaam speaks again.

“Sam could have ordered you to stay, you know.” Dean pauses, and Balaam carries on. “He could have made you stay. Taken away your choices and ensured your loyalty, and the world would be a safer place. But he hasn’t, because he wouldn’t ever remove your free will. Do me a favour and don’t screw it up.”

“The hell does that mean?”

“If you leave, and then start causing problems for us, Sam’s going to have to either find a way to kill you, or he’ll have to use the Speech to ensure that you won’t go on a murder spree. Either of those options will destroy him. If there’s any small part of you that still cares about your brother, don’t do that to him.”

Dean walks out of the door without answering, slamming it behind him.

Sam swallows the lump in his throat, walks down the remainder of the stairs and goes into the library.

He has a kingdom to run, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! Thank you to everyone who commented or left kudos, and particularly to Safiyabat, who beta'd the first and last chapters because she is wonderful, and Liron_Aria, who kicked me until I actually got round to writing the last chapter. 
> 
> Yes, I am aware I have left it open-ended. I may revisit this 'verse at some later date but nothing is as yet planned.


End file.
